


so used (to being used)

by vineasphodel



Series: so used (to being used) [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal, Blow Jobs, M/M, Other, Prostitution, Rimming, cross dressing, famous/non-famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:48:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3750403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vineasphodel/pseuds/vineasphodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Harry gets his drink less than a couple of seconds later and he smiles in thanks before the bartender moves again. He grabs a bottle of Merlot red wine and pours it into a glass, setting it onto the bar in front of the other man sitting there. Gaze fixated to the flat of the counter top, the man's fingers toy with the bottom of his wine glass. A clean, but chiseled jaw frames the side of his face while a tiny black hoop earring sits in one ear. Eyelashes like inky black strokes, flutter with each blink and although he is beautiful, Harry does not mistake the tattoo that sits in plain view. Sitting on the hand that toys with his wine glass, above long and delicate fingers, a bird takes off in flight just above the knuckle to his pinky. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And it's no coincidence that this man has the same tattoo Veronica has, there has to be no coincidence. It's the third time that night he's seen that particular bird.</em>
</p><p>or the au where harry is a solo artist and feels like something is missing from his life despite the fame. zayn's a cross dressing prostitute that sometimes goes by the name veronica and thinks the world's too big for him. when they meet, it's a landslide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so used (to being used)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilla/gifts).



> so, this is for the winter zarry exchange, and it was a lot of fun!! kudos to knightzayn for all their hard work, and a big thanks to tori and kat for betaing this fic for me. i’m so sorry for all the trouble. 
> 
> rilla, i hope you enjoy. i tried my best.
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own one direction or modest! management and this work is completely fiction (obviously).

 

"so many broken children

living in grown bodies

mimicking adult lives."

\- Ijemoa Umbinyuo, ([ _via theijemoa_.](http://theijeoma.tumblr.com/))

 

*** * ***

 

Music thumps heavily throughout the space of the club and bodies move along bodies. Sweat shimmers on arms and necks, and on the breasts and stomach's of the girls showing off their midriffs. Too many pairs of male eyes trace the dark corners of the room in search of girls to hook up with, sometimes even other men. Faceless faces to dance with, to bring home at the end of the night for tasteless sex that won't be remembered the next morning, never mind in the next week. Just a mouth to put a tongue in, just a sexy dance partner to get off with, a rough palm pressed to their genitals as they sway with each rock of their hips. Sweat mixes as more bodies pass, sliding against one after the other until all that's left is foreign bodily fluids trapped in foreign pores. R&B beats drive the sleazy dancing that packs the dance floor, more bodies grinding against bodies. At the bar, there's some familiar faces while others are just mingling to get into the scene. But there is mostly just gasping for air, too much body heat making heads fuzzy and lungs struggling for a deep breath of fresh air, something clean in the otherwise dirty environment. A thin layer of fog covers the floor up to the ankles of moving feet and the flashing lights are enough to make Harry's eyes water. But why should he really be surprised when he's been through this more times than he could count?

It's another one of those release parties that management forces him to plan in another well known club down in London. Another party with too many people he doesn't really know and too many people he does.

"It looks good," They told him, "Makes you look good, friendly, approachable." And it's all the things Harry already is. The last four years of fame had not changed the simple boy from a simple town back in Holmes Chapel. Four years had not changed the fact that he'd go outside the venue a couple of hours before a show and greet the fans already waiting outside. He'd wave and chat, sign autographs and take pictures when they'd ask (and they always ask) until he was pulled away at the elbow by security. Even when he was walking the streets of London and ran into a fan, he was always polite to them, placing a hand at their back and his gaze never leaving theirs, giving them his undivided attention. Interviewers are still amazed when Harry walks through the room and shakes every single person's hand, and he smiles and shrugs because he is used to it and it is easy. It's easy for him, easy to talk and charm when he had worked back in the bakery when he was fourteen, where he essentially grew into himself. Three years of his life he spent in a place where it was just him and a couple of old ladies baking and selling bread, biscuits and other sweets, and it was easy to chat them up along with the customers that trailed in throughout the day. Talk and charm and talk and charm. All anyone needed was a smile and the deep dimple in his cheek to fall in love. Perhaps that was why he was given the title of a heart breaker. Talk and charm and talk and charm, that was how it always went.

Sat at a booth in one corner of the club, Harry picks at his fingernails, a piece of orbit gum being chewed between his teeth, sour on his tongue. The leather of the seating rubs against the black denim of his jeans and there is an empty glass half full with melting ice that used to be filled with his Long Island Iced Tea, finished just a half hour ago. Surrounding him at the round booth, his team talks mindlessly about his future -- his future that Harry practically has no control over, if the five year contract he signed when he won X-Factor is anything to go by.

There is no point in listening what they have to say though, which is why Harry ordered a drink about an hour ago and had been sipping on it until the straw was slurping up the water at the bottom. At one point where he opened his mouth to speak, lips pink around the black straw of his drink, Richard placed a firm hand on Harry’s knee, giving a squeeze as warning. Harry closed his mouth around the straw after that and took a sip every time he felt the urge to say something about his career at hand. Being obedient was always his strong suit, it looked good on him, too, although at the back of his mind, there was a tickle that worried Harry was just being taken advantage of.

During the first year under management, he had expressed his worry to his sister, Gemma. “Just be thankful you won, Harry. You _made it._ And you’re living your dream.” she said around a mouthful, a bite of a sesame seed bagel from the bakery Harry used to work at. Richard and Harry Magee from Modest! allowed him a trip back home for a couple of days, visiting the last bits of pieces from his childhood before he had to get in the studio to work on his first album. “I mean, that’s kinda how the industry is though, right?” Placing a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder, she squeezed with reassurance, fingers digging into the skin. “It could be a lot worse, yeah?”

And that had been his mindset for the last three years since, those six words sticking to the back of his head like a wad of chewing gum in a tangle of hair. When things went bad, they rung loud and deafening. _It could be a lot worse_. Four albums and three tours later (one in the making), he gets to perform every night with packed crowds screaming his name and lyrics, his face plastered on every magazine and television set not only in the United Kingdom, but in the United States, too. Harry has everything he’s ever wanted, and so when he takes a step back, weighing the pros and the cons are a no-brainer. _It could be a lot worse_ because he could not be in this position at all. _It could be a lot worse_ so Harry should be grateful. So, he gets out of bed at four in the morning to record his album even if he slept for only a too-short twenty minutes. He rolls out of the bunk in the tour bus and slouches into the hotel room, nothing but a closet and a mattress for his vocals to bounce off of. And every night, the people screaming his name and singing his lyrics charges every bone in his body, every blood vessel, every single vein that follows through him. But the deep and pressing gap in his chest suggests otherwise, that this isn’t it and that there’s something more out there for him.

With one single breath, he sighs, the busy club continuing on beyond him. Being surrounded by people was Harry’s everyday life from the moment he was born, and so he was born to do this. But picking his head up, he watches the people in Temptation dance and socialize and still there is something missing. Harry could fade into the background, but would anyone notice, that was the question. And the answer was no. The world will always continue on with or without their Harry Styles.

“I have to wee.” he slurs loudly, setting his hands into his lap with a slap of his palms, it being the first thing he’s said all night. All of seven people sat at the booth with him turn their gazes, their mouths open with the conversation they were having without him on the tip of their tongues, now coming to a hault. For a beat or two, the table is still shocked by the abrupt disruption that each of the team members pause, and an “Uh,” falls from Harry Magee’s mouth.

Paul stands from the seat next to Harry with a grunt. “I got it.” He places a hand on Harry’s lower back as Harry stands, probably anticipating the twenty-one year old to be a little more tipsy than he really is, but Harry complies with a sheepish smile.

Harry turns away from the booth and across the dance floor toward the restrooms, Paul in tow close behind him. Over at the stage, a bartender steps up with a microphone in hand and a friendly smile on his mouth. The roar of the crowd dies down as the music slows, only a small thrum in every chest, vibrating from each pulse of the bass. “Is everyone having a good time?” the bartender asks and everyone goes up into a howling roar enough to make ears bleed. Ignoring it all, Harry pushes past people’s shoulders with help from Paul, his ears ringing and bladder pressing. The sound of the crowd goes faint with each step he gets to the hole in the wall where the restrooms are. “That’s absolutely fantastic, London! Massive, _massive_ thanks to Harry Styles for this wonderful party, wherever the lad is. My name is Louis and if any of you lovely people need a drink, I’ll be at the bar this evening. Coming up in about half hour is our show, so make sure to stay tuned. Thank you all for coming here tonight, on behalf of Envy, I can say it’s been a pleasure so far. Massive thanks again!”

Harry only stumbles once while walking into the long corridor, Paul’s rough hand pulling him back by the shoulder and straightening him back up again.

"Down that way, I'll wait for you here. If you need anything, just holler." Paul nods to one of the doors down the narrow hallway and Harry gives a nod of his own in understanding. There from the start, Paul always looked after Harry whenever the going got tough. Even when Harry was particularly lonely, all he had to do was sit in the seat beside Paul and the man would treat the boy like he was his own son. It was something that made Harry’s chest swell when he thought about it. Going away for months on end with so little down time, makes moments at home so much more charitable because Harry never really knew when he’d come back home, what he’d miss. But he always had Paul.

The noise dies down on this side of the club, enough for Harry to hear the rapping sound of the filthy floor scuffing the bottom of his boots as he files down the long stretch. He approaches every door with caution though, not knowing which door is actually the men’s restroom. Too many doors are on either side of the hallway, all shut with light coming out of the crack at the bottom of the frame in very few. But he could hear conversation taking part on the other side, as they might be dressing rooms for the dancers or perhaps closets where the guests could put their coats. Still, it’s strange, this little corridor. In other clubs Harry been in, they’ve all had restrooms smack dab in the middle of one of the walls for easy access. But Temptation’s titled a high end club in the last year, easily attracted by their heavily diverse musical style, black walls, red trims and furniture. The drinks a right mix between classic and new blends of mixology, and the performance every night consists of dancers resembling each of the seven deadly sins.

Finding the door with a large ‘M’ embroidered into the front, Harry pushes past into the toilets and enters a strangely vacant bathroom. Several expensive looking sinks line the long counter sitting opposite of several black stalls, their doors all open with clean looking toilets on the inside. Harry turns in confusion, brows knitting together and on the back of the door, he sees the large sign that reads ‘FOR EMPLOYEES ONLY.’

And thank God for that.

He takes his time pissing with the door to the stall hanging open, not even bothering to close the damn thing, assuming he has enough time to take a proper piss before anyone walks in. And no one does although Harry could hear clear conversation now outside, yelling and shouting with enthusiastic yelps. But they disappear in an instant and Harry’s left standing there with his hand on his cock, staring at the opposite wall. The bass of the music from the heart of the club vibrates against the walls in sharp, pounding thumps.

With a sigh, he tucks his dick back in his pants and flushes the toilet, turning toward the sink and covers his hands in the flowery scented soap that spurts from the dispenser. And he takes that extra minute to slowly wash his hands and run them under the cold water, making sure to get every single soap sud because what else is there to do? When he gets back to the booth, it will just be the same old thing, over and over again. Harry will have to sit and listen and drink, have Paul leading him to the car with a hand to his back when they leave because he won’t be able to stand up right, and would have fallen into the street a couple of times before being jerked back onto the sidewalk.

Looking up into the mirror, Harry turns the tap off. Sighing at his reflection, he runs a hand through his hair, longer than it’s ever been, half curls falling to his shoulders. He doesn’t blink and stares until his eyes water, vision becoming hazy so he looks away, rubbing at his eyes with his palms. Leaving the bathroom, Harry walks back down the deserted hallway and prepares to meet Paul again at the end.

There's a door to his right slightly ajar that hadn’t been before, enough to make Harry's gaze linger as he passes. And he comes to a slow stop at the scene, staring at the sight for a moment or two before his brain registers what he’s actually seeing.

At first glance, Harry sees a woman around his age bent over one of the couches, gripping the armrests with harsh, press on nailed fingers. Tattoos cover planes of her dark pinked skin, but they appear faded like makeup was caked on top of them and they're now just beginning to smudge. The stenciled outline of a bird -- something that resembles a swallow or a dove -- is the only tattoo Harry completely makes out, drawn on the girl's hand just above the knuckle her pinky finger. Thick, dark curled hair falls into her eyes as she dips her head down, delicate mouth hanging slack. A flush of red starts at her cheeks and Harry follows the blush down her flat chest, nipples erect, to the tip of the curled cock that bobs against her thigh while another man in the room pounds her from behind.

Harry's heart hammers inside his chest as he stands there un-moving, peering through the crack in the door. But he traces the body back up and his eyes follow the beads of sweat that rolls down the androgynous forehead, collecting in the dip of the collarbone. And as their lips part, they pick their head up, meeting Harry's gaze. And while Harry freezes, his feet rooted to the spot while intense hazel yellow eyes peer back at him through false eyelashes. A short, strangled moan falls from their beautiful mouth, spurts of come shooting from the pinked and sensitive tip of their cock.

Immediately, Harry tears his eyes away and speeds up his pace to the end of the hallway to meet Paul. The quickness of his strides and the stunned expression that crosses his mouth, must be what gives him away. Paul turns toward the boy upon his return and frowns, deep lines etching itself into his forehead.

“Alright?”

“Yes,” Harry says in one short breath, but the look that Paul gives him (eyebrows raising in suspicion) suggests that he doesn’t buy it. But he doesn’t press it any further and instead claps a hand to Harry’s shoulder and waits for the younger boy to make his move back across the dance floor to the booth. So, Harry does, every footstep bringing upon a new memory; a black wig and flat chest, pink rimmed lips and a twitching cock, press on nails, deep red eyeshadow, and a bird tattoo. And Paul has to steer Harry in the direction of the booth several times.

When they reach the table again, Harry doesn’t say a word, not like anyone says anything back to him. The table continues their easy conversation of business and the only thing Harry cares about is another glass of Long Island Iced Tea sitting in front of his seat for him. And he sips eagerly, a new techno beat flooding through the club as he drinks. He taps his foot to it, boot hitting the leg of the table and it shakes the entire booth, all the drinks shaking in their spots. Harry clutches onto his own glass, rings on his fingers clanging against the glass in soft taps. Paul’s gaze is on him, Harry could feel the intensity, the knowing that something is off. But he stays like that, zones out the chatter of his management once more as they fall into a conversation that’s no longer business, says nothing and when there’s nothing left of his drink, he chews at the end of the straw to give himself something to do. But it never leaves his mind, and he still hears the echo of the moan fill his entire body, climbing up his toes and into his fingertips. He feels it vibrate in the pit of his lower tummy, hum against the zipper of his jeans. For five to six songs, Harry’s eyes close and he sits back against the booth, letting his limbs loosen.

And it’s when he’s mumbling the lyrics to a Maroon 5 song and he’s just starting to forget what he seen, does it happen.

“Hey! Aren’t you very pretty?”

Harry’s eyelids flutter open, whole body buzzing from the booze to see Simon smirking. The man’s eyes stare off somewhere behind Harry and each pair of eyes at the booth is directed in the direction over his head. A woman’s arm stretches out next to him, Simon reaching out to grab her hand and kiss the top, lips curled at the corners at they touch her skin.

“And what’s your name, beautiful?”

She sets down another Iced Tea in front of Harry hard enough to spill some over the rim of the glass and down the side. “You can call me Veronica, babe.” She says as she reaches for the empty glass still in Harry’s hands and he dumbly lets the straw go from between his teeth. While she collects the glasses, Harry’s hand reaches for his fourth drink that night and takes a sip.

Very slowly, Harry turns his head just enough not to give him a headache, and just enough to glance at Veronica. And she _is_ very beautiful; like a doll, her colored skin shimmers and reflects the lights of the club, acute and light brown eyes shadowed by smokey red eyeshadow, pink lips shimmery and sharp cheekbones highlighted. Eyelashes long and limbs delicate, and she holds a tray of drinks in hand straight with a confidence of expertise and sets them all down into the table with equal proficiency. Dressed in deep red, her looks could kill any man or woman that glances at her wrongly. Her top cuts just enough to display her collarbones, jewels encrusted at the front and her skirt ends tight below her arse. Black rimmed glasses hang from her nose, red like the color of her makeup on the inside.

But her beauty is not what strikes Harry. It’s not the sexy outfit she wears, or the tall high heels strapped to her feet. It's instead her face and the stenciled bird tattoo on her hand that makes his chest tighten in nervousness.

His throat closes with a heavy press and it's so hard not to choke on the cocktail he's sipping on as she sets the last glass down onto the table.

Shamefully, Harry keeps his gaze downward on a dirty used napkin. Veronica's gaze though penetrates his back and Harry makes the mistake of glancing back up at her, skimming up her body until their eyes meet once more. Through the lenses of her glasses, she peers at him with knowing eyes and the room becomes too hot, too stuffy, too suffocating. Because Veronica had seen him and Harry seen her. Bent over and being fucked out, no less than fiffteen minutes ago. Embarrassment fills Harry's chest, a terrible redness falling upon his cheeks that spreads down to the toes of his boots.

The way she retracts her hand away from the table is slow, the tattoo between them evidence of their knowing. Holding the tray, her hands fall to her waist and Harry breathes, Veronica snapping her gaze to Simon. She doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes again, not even when he doesn’t look away, keeps his gaze entirely focused on her. Hand on her hip, she holds the tray up high and the metal brushes her shoulder. "Anything else I could do for you?" Her accent is American and fake, Harry notes. But he bites back his tongue, eyes still too wide and mouth dry, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth with a loss for words. His fingers swipe across the glass and collects condensation on his thumbs, and he brings his bottom lip into his mouth to chew on the skin in distress. Fuck.

“Oh, there is a lot you could do for me, sweetie.” Someone says at the table and Harry picks his gaze up to watch as Veronica’s upper lip twitches. A brief, curling snarl that Harry only guesses is in disgust. It passes, though and slowly, she leans forward with her body bent, the elbow of her free arm sitting on the table. Her back arches, her arse out and Richard leans back to get a good, proper look before whistling lowly and chuckling at the sight.

Veronica settles her chin into the palm of her hand and tilts her head to the side. The corner of her mouth quivers and she smiles, eyes narrowing. “Looks like you’ll just have to wait until after the show, babe.”

Harry Magee breaks out into laughter first before the whole table is howling, Simon shaking his head with a dumb smirk on his mouth. Julian claps his hands together, face a deep shade of red from laughing too hard. Harry is the only one at the table that keeps his fucking mouth shut. Veronica picks herself off from the table and holds the tray with both hands. With a last lingering glance, she turns on her heel and walks away from the booth, into the crowd of people and Harry loses sight of her.

With or without Veronica’s presence, his heart rattles in his chest and Harry could not tell if his head was swimming from the zealous in her eyes, or if was from drinking too much alcohol too quickly. Setting down the glass, Harry leaves it untouched until the music of the club fades into something more nineties and there’s a spot light in the pit they use for performances while the rest of the room goes dark another twenty minutes later.

Three dancers come onto the stage from each side, standing all in a perfect line and decked out in the finest robes of all colors representing the sins. Harry swivels in his seat to get a better look when each of the sins hold up their long skirts, while the final personification of Wrath takes her place on stage from behind the makeshift curtain. They drop their trains one by one, dramatic and practiced, and there at center stage, Wrath stands. Her head is held high, chin pointed and while her wig is different, Harry sees the structure of her face, the frame of her shoulders and the fierceness she carries upon them. Her glasses are gone from the bridge of her nose, her outfit a tight fitting dress of red, but as the other sins kneel around Veronica, she becomes the most worshiped. Wrath is everything; she lip-syncs first, a slow, boiling ballad that sparks goosebumps on Harry’s arms. And all the while through the six other performances, his eyes never leaves her until the performance ends and the stage going black. The club erupts in applause and the lights come back just briefly for all of the sins to take their bows before running back off stage again.

Louis, the bartender makes another appearance when he steps onto the stage again, clapping his hands together. “Wow,” he says into the microphone, letting out a low whistle. “Now, wasn’t that just amazing?”

“I’ll say.” Harry mumbles to himself while the crowd goes up into another roar of applause and enthusiastic whistles.

“That’s fantastic!” Louis laughs, “So glad you enjoyed our show. A few of our dancers are going to come back all to mingle with you amazing lot, so remember to be nice.” When he winks, the crowd falls into a series of laughter while Harry’s eyes scans the dancefloor surrounding the pit where the stage is in. Some of the dancers come filing out, but Harry doesn’t see Veronica. Louis’ voice becomes background noise the second he does spot her, walking in her high heels and heading for the hole in the wall. One of the dancers trail along behind her, mouth moving with their brows furrowed. And although she isn’t alone, Harry makes his move.

“Um,” he turns toward Paul, leaning into the other man so that he’s just muttering into the older man’s ear. “I’ll be right back.”

Looking back at him, Paul furrows his eyebrows. “Where you going?” he shouts back gruffly over the music and Harry points toward his drink.

“Too many Iced Teas.” he mouths, making a drinking gesture and Paul must get the hint because he nods, grabbing his glass of diet coke and takes a sip himself. The only sober fucker. Bless his fucking soul.

His feet drags him through the dancefloor, bopping up over the heads of the crowd every now and again to get a good look where Veronica is. And he does run into a couple of equally drunk fans, sidestepping him and catching him by the sleeve of his jacket.

“Harry!” One of them calls, drink in their hand. Their friend, linked together by the arms, holds an unlocked cell phone in her hand. “Can we get a photo, please, we love you so much.” But the timing couldn’t have been any better when the girl holding her drink retches and vomits onto the floor adjacent of their feet. And like the security guard he is, Paul swoops in. His eyes are first set on Harry, probably noting that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to be pissed drunk and mingling with the fans. But Harry points back to the girls and places a hand on Paul’s shoulder.

“You should take them outside.” he stammers. Paul raises an eyebrow at him. “You know, get fresh air and water. And that.”

For a moment, Paul looks a little stunned and although he doesn’t nod, his attention turns toward the girls instead of Harry. And while Paul decides to pick up the pieces, Harry makes his great escape into following Veronica. There is no reason why he’s doing it when Veronica spends every night with other men, pleasing them and serving them. But the look she’d given him back at the table, that long and lingering look set Harry’s veins on fire.

He gets to the hole in the wall a second after Veronica and the other dancer get inside. They stop, their mouths moving, but the music bumps through the room louder. And just as Harry approaches the hallway, security that had been lingering about the door frame stops him.

“Sorry,” the security guard holds out his arm and blocks the doorway. Raising a brow, Harry looks up at him. The front of his black shirt and over the pocket at the left side of his chest reads in white cursive ‘LIAM.’ His expression reads a sincere look of apology, too nice of an expression to have ever graced an actual security guard. “I can’t allow you to go back there. It’s for private personal only.”

Over Liam’s shoulder, the other dancer, Pride (judging by the gold of her clothes) takes off her wig and shakes out bleached blonde hair. “You can’t do shit like that again,” Pride says in an Irish brogue and Harry watches as Veronica rolls her eyes, nimble fingers picking at the button at her throat. “That only left you with a half hour to get ready. You could have cost us everything.”

Harry blinks and directs his attention momentarily at him, quite dumbfounded. “But I am private personal.” he says, slow and precise so he doesn’t slur. Liam must be new to the club, because Harry watches as he shifts his footing and instead holding his arm out, he moves toward the middle of the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest.

“But I made it out in fifteen,” Veronica starts and this time she drops the American accent, her voice now ringing off in a deep, heavy accent. Harry barely makes out what’s being said, Veronica’s words coming out in a mumble. “And still had time to service the bar. _And_ had time for hair, makeup and wardrobe change. Record fucking timing. So, honestly,” She peels the wig off with a sigh, dark hair shaved at the sides and the top slicked back into a messy bun. Reaching up, she releases the tie and lets her hair fall to the side of her face before running a hand through the strands. “Get off my fucking case, Niall.” And it’s the last thing Harry hears before Veronica turns on her heel and walks down the hallway into darkness where he can’t follow, the other dancer following behind her.

“Okay, come on, move along, sir.” Liam says, shooing Harry away with his hands. His cheeks are darker than Harry had previously seen, lips together and perhaps it’s the awkward encounter that took place behind him that makes him embarrassed. “Nothing to see here.”

Annoyance flares deep in the pit of Harry's chest as he frowns. But okay, _fine._ There’s no point in fighting Liam on letting him in. He’s big in stature, shoulders broad and it’s clear that he works out on his downtime if the size of his arms are anything to go by. And he just seems to be doing his job, taking his place at the door and securing the safety of his club’s dancers. Harry’s shoulders ease and he lets out a breath he’s been holding since Liam waved him off. He’s giving Harry a peculiar look, but when Harry smiles sheepishly and apologetically, Liam’s brows raise an inch.

“Sorry,” Harry says and Liam’s body visibly relaxes with the knowledge that Harry isn’t going to give him a hard time. “Will they be coming back out?”

Liam blinks at the question, cheeks flaming under the flashing lights. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck as he breaks out into a laugh, unable to hold his smile. “I’m not sure, actually. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It’s okay.” Smiling back, there’s that single twinge of disappointment that shoots through him. But it’s nothing that Liam can fix, nothing that Veronica can do when Harry doesn’t even know who she is and whether or not she’d be one of the dancers that steps off into the club tonight to greet guests. And it doesn’t matter either. Embarrassment still floating at the top of his chest like leaf in a pool, except it’s taking up most of the capacity left. Facing Veronica again meant that he’d have to face the fact that he saw her in the crack of that door, fucking someone before her show.

The bar’s adjacent to his right and so to _not_ be a bother and loiter anymore than he already is, he decides to walk off in that direction. And to order another Iced Tea. The night has been full of blood pumping action and Harry is going to drink it off if he damn well pleases. So, he slides right into a corner seat to lie low while he drinks because it’s ten times better than sitting in his seat back at the booth.

“Can I get a Long Island Iced Tea, please?”

The bartender picks his head up at the sound of Harry’s voice and when their eyes meet, there’s a moment of recognition flashing in his eyes. He says nothing of it though, plays it professional and nods, setting the tea towel down and moving for the glasses behind him to prepare the drink for him. Normalcy feels so good when Harry could actually do something for himself for a change.

Tapping his fingers along the bar, he presses his lips together, hips swaying to the beat of the music. With more than a couple of drinks in him, the tracks become a little bit more upbeat and a lot more lip-sync worthy. Behind him, there’s whispers and Harry hears his name once or twice, but no one approaches him and that is even better. And glancing back at the bar, he watches as the bartender mixes his drink and he doesn’t even feel the man behind him pass until he sets himself into a seat a couple of spots away.

Slipping effortlessly on to the bar stool, his slim body moves with elegance and precise. And there, dressed all in black and leather, hair tied up into a neat bun that sits at the top of his head, he mutters something to the bartender that Harry can’t hear and only sees nods of heads.

Harry gets his drink less than a couple of seconds later and he smiles in thanks before the bartender moves again. He grabs a bottle of Merlot red wine and pours it into a glass, setting it onto the bar in front of the other man sitting there. Gaze fixated to the flat of the counter-top, the man’s fingers toy with the bottom of his wine glass. A clean, but chiseled jaw frames the side of his face while a tiny black hoop earring sits in one ear. Eyelashes like inky black strokes, flutter with each blink and although he is beautiful, Harry does not mistake the tattoo that sits in plain view. Sitting on the hand that toys with his wine glass, above long and delicate fingers, a bird takes off in flight just above the knuckle to his pinky.

And it's no coincidence that this boy has the same tattoo Veronica has, there has to be no coincidence. It's the third time that night he's seen that particular bird.

His throat closes and Harry coughs, sputtering with a fist coming up to his mouth. And Veronica’s male counterpart's eyes meet Harry’s with an expression the popstar can’t read; lips together and eyebrows raising slowly on his forehead. A short span of time elapses.

“Hi,” Harry says over the heavy beat of the club, lips and teeth working hard not to let him slur. His voice sounds loud even to his own ears and it’s probably really awkward that he’s shouting across the bar when he should just walk over there. “I’m H--”

“I know who you are.” the other man says, voice low and mumbling underneath the music, his accent thick. Veronica is no longer within Temptation, locked away into something unknown to Harry. Unknown, unfamiliar.

Blinking, Harry pauses, his mouth hanging slightly open with a loss for the words that come next. While his mind draws a blank, more silence stretches between them. Slowly picking up the rag again, the bartender looks between the two men with an arched brow before finally settling upon the other man.

“Alright, Z?”

“Nah, Louis. I’m good.” _Louis_ from the stage announcements. No wonder he looked familiar.

Louis doesn’t say anything after that, just purses his lips as he side eyes Harry and starts wiping down shot glasses, wrist twisting so aggressively that the muscles in his forearm pulse. Z’s gaze falls upon his wine glass as he spins it with the tips of three fingers, red wine slouching inside. He brings it up to his lips, cradling the glass in his fingertips and takes a long sip.

“Z,” Harry says suddenly again and Z picks his head up, lips together and eyes looking bored. The expression pulling on his mouth reeks of disinterest, but his shoulders are angled within himself as if held up as a guard. Feeling bold, Harry picks up his Iced Tea and a stray napkin, and licking his lips, he slides off from his stool just to round the bar and settle into a seat next to Z’s while his shoulders tense at the close proximity. “Is that your name?” Harry continues and from this close, Harry can make out the smoothness of Z’s face. “Is it, like, short for something? Is it just one letter? Is it spelt something like Z-E-E or--”

The corner of his mouth twitches in amusement and breaks the tension between them. But before Harry can comment on the sight, Z licks it away with a swipe of his tongue. Harry’s eyes follows the action. “You’re very talkative when you’re drunk.”

Messily toying with his fingers, Harry chews on his bottom lip as his cheeks flush. Tonight is not going well for this person he hadn’t even properly met, but instead has seen almost every sensual side Z has to offer. _Almost_. The back of Harry’s neck forms tiny beads of sweat and makes his hair stick to it, nervous that there is no indication on whether or not Z means it in a good way.

"It's Zayn." He says with a lick of his lips. "Z-A-Y-N. Some people call me Z for short."

“Oh,” Cute fucking name for a cute fucking face. “That’s a really nice name.” the second it falls from his mouth, his cheeks burn from yet another loose lipped mistake. Drinking all of those Iced Tea’s was not the best idea he’s ever come up with and should definitely reconsider drinking. Harry wishes he could take it back. And especially with the way Zayn looks at him; his brow cocking a bit on his forehead and the line of his mouth doesn’t move.

“Thanks.” And the tone is unreadable, unclear whether it’s sincere.

In a way to save the conversation, he panics and blurts out, “I’m Harry.” But Zayn already said he knew who Harry was. God fucking dammit, he’s embarrassing himself left and right tonight. Wasn’t he supposed to be a charmer when he was pissed off his arse? What the hell happened? Zayn’s clearly not fucking impressed, maybe mildly amused, but Harry’s probably just reading into him too much, too nervous that he can’t even get an idea of what Zayn’s thinking with his facial expressions.

For a beat or two, Zayn stares at him. His fingers stop moving around the end of his wine glass and it seems that he even stops breathing. The club drives a beat that resonates in Harry’s lungs as he waits. “You know,” Zayn finally begins, clearing his throat and swiveling in his seat until he’s facing Harry. Licking his lips, he tilts his head to the side. “I think we’ve already had that conversation.”

“Sorry,” He breathes, his mouth coming up into another small smile and he even manages to chuckle a little, laughing at himself. “It’s a force of habit.”

“I bet it is.” Zayn’s voice going quieter, but Harry still makes out his voice over the noise of the club. In his peripheral vision, Harry makes out how Louis chooses that moment to look up at the two of them, pausing his drink making for the service bar runners before returning just a millisecond later. Harry glances down at his Iced Tea, fingers circling the rim while beside him, Zayn takes another sip of his wine.

“I was just,” Harry’s sudden start makes Zayn raise an eyebrow at him and nerves flit inside the spaces of his ribcage. Licking his lips, he tries again slowly as to not mumble and slur, come out clear and precise. “I was just wondering when you got off.”

Zayn’s face visibly falls, the smile on his lips faltering and quivering out into a grimace. The smooth plane between eyebrows crease and he looks away from Harry, focusing back onto his glass of wine and his fingers rub over the glass. There’s a brief moment where Zayn stays silent and Harry narrows his eyes, frowning. But then Zayn breaks out into a small and bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Guess I should’ve known.”

A clear change in direction happens quicker than Harry could comprehend and the curve of his mouth twitches. “What?”

Pushing off from the seat of the bar stool, Zayn slides out of the seat and abandons the red wine. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? I know celebrities like you.” And when Harry doesn’t respond, Zayn shakes his head again. From behind the bar, Louis pauses making more drinks, his brow furrowing as he glances between the two of them for the third time that night. Harry’s mouth opens and he freezes, words sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Zayn lingers, his jaw set and eyes dark like he’s waiting for Harry to say something to him. But when the only sound in the space between them is the music of the club and drunk passersby’s, Zayn doesn’t wait for a comeback. His eyes stay on Harry as he turns his shoulder and then he’s gone, storming off toward the front and out of the club like a tornado. And the only thing that stares back at Harry is the white skull drawn onto the back of Zayn’s leather jacket and Louis furiously mixing drinks.

It’s ridiculous when he just asked a simple question, a harmless question of what time Zayn’s shift ended. What did it mean, ‘celebrities like him?’ What _was_ Harry trying to do? The pieces don’t fit together like they should. And Harry really can’t leave things like that. His brows come together and he frowns into the empty space until a stranger shoves into the seat and yells over to Louis to get him a drink.

“Put it on my tab.” Harry nods toward the girl when his and Louis’ eyes meet. And he watches as Louis breathes in deeply and exhales just as hard.

“All the drinks are on your tab tonight, popstar.” he deadpans, eyebrow cocking as he fetches another glass.

“Oh. Well, good then.” He lifts himself out of the stool and tries to give Louis a parting smile, but he doesn’t look Harry’s way again. Pushing his way through the crowd, he makes it toward the exit a minute later. Outside, the air is chilly and it hits his warm body like whiplash but he can breathe out here.

Zayn’s there, too. A cigarette hangs from between his slim fingers in one hand, smoke drifting from his parted lips as he paces the front curb of the street.

“Hey,” Harry calls and Zayn glances over his shoulder at him, the busy London street alive behind him. Zayn’s relaxed face tenses and his shoulders go rigid. “I don’t--”

“Stop trying to chat me up. I’m not going to sleep with you, so give it a rest.” He spits before taking a drag out of his cigarette and flicking the ashes into the street.  

Coughing out, Harry blinks rapidly. “ _What?_ ” He takes a step back in shock, eyes wide and he blinks several times before shaking his head. “I -- It’s not _like that_.”

Zayn’s eyes narrow at him while his cigarette burns in his hand, smoking curling and disperses when the wind blows, rustling their hair and through their clothes. “It’s not like that?” He repeats with a retort. Harry’s footing shifts uncomfortably underneath him, the boots of his toes coming together and tapping. “We both know what you saw.”

Bent over the couch, the image of Zayn comes back and his moan resonates through Harry’s brain. His face goes hot and he clenches his fists at his side, Harry pressing his lips together. “Yeah.” He agreed and the one word makes Zayn raise his eyebrows at him again like he’s made his point. But Harry doesn’t get it, furrows his brows and continues, “I didn’t want that, I just--”

“What?” Zayn cuts him off in a bitter tone, his patience wearing thin. “You want to _‘talk?’_ Is that what you want?”

Harry’s left standing there with his mouth open, blinking at Zayn with wide eyes. He frowns in confusion, licking his lips and mumbling a soft, “Um,” before pressing on. “Y -- Yeah, is… is that bad?”

He doesn’t get an answer right away. Zayn stays silent, his lips together in a line and his jaw’s twitching. And his gaze never leaves Harry, but instead pierces into his, Zayn standing his ground with the strength to never back down. After a minute or so, Zayn straightens his back and picks his chin up a little as if sizing Harry up. “I want ten grand.” he says but -- _what?_

“What?”

“I said you wanna _‘talk,’_ yeah?” He uses the air quotes sarcastically. “Then I want ten grand by the end of the night.”

Parting his lips to reply, Harry thinks on it, considers Zayn’s offer although he doesn’t quite understand it. Harry isn’t asking to have sex with Zayn and he isn’t asking Veronica either. And still, by the simple act of stumbling upon Veronica being fucked out by accident, Zayn’s making Harry pay up, quite literally. And Harry could say no, that this is ridiculous and has nothing to prove to Zayn by making this kind of deal. He has nothing to prove and nothing to lose, and still Harry nods. It’s a cross between nodding and shaking his head, but he does it and shrugs his shoulders. “Okay, yeah, whatever.”

The second the words fall from Harry’s mouth, Zayn takes one last long drag of his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe. He doesn’t give Harry time to decide if he wants to follow and instead, Zayn starts walking away, turning his back on him, stuffs his free hand into the pockets of his jacket and down the block. And Zayn only gets about a half a block away when Harry breaks out into a run to catch up to him.

Zayn stays considerably silent throughout their walk to fuck-knows-where and keeps his gaze straight. He never glances Harry’s way, not once. Not even when Harry accidently shoulders a woman with his own and when Harry apologizes, her eyes go wide and her jaw drops. Harry only smiles back in apology, his hand coming up to give her a small wave as he keeps walking not to lose Zayn and she waves back with enthusiastic vigor.

He leads Harry straight into a dingy cafe several blocks away from the club. The outside appears to be completely run down, a few of the lights of it’s name either blinking or happens to already be out. A red fluorescent light in the window reads ‘OPEN 24 HOURS’ and a bell rings the same moment that Zayn opens the door and files on inside. Harry follows him, eyes flickering about the dinner; on the left side, there’s the bar and other counter space that holds the pastries and other sweets, just next to the counter where the cash register sits. While the rest of the room’s covered in tiny booths and tables, sitting over black and off white checkered flooring. The wallpaper appears worn out and some of the seams are torn, little strips picked away showing a plain yellow underneath. Two waitresses lean upon the counter and they look up and smile at Zayn when they enter.

“Hey, Zayn.” the blonde one says once she rounds the counter with two menu’s in her hands. Lingering behind Zayn, Harry toys with his fingers and feels an awful like he’s imposing on Zayn’s personal life. The blonde waitress has yet to have noticed who Harry is while the other dark haired waitress in the back ends up knocking over a bowl of mints with her hand by accident. When Harry’s eyes meet hers, there wide and there’s a steady blush forming on her cheeks.

They’re gestured to a booth that both Harry and Zayn slide into. “Hey, Pez.” Zayn replies, pressing his lips into a smile when he looks up to her. He waves a hand toward Harry and sighs quite exasperatedly. Harry frowns. “This is Harry.”

Pez -- or actually Perrie, judging by her name tag pinned to her black shirt -- shifts her gaze from Zayn to Harry. And it’s in that moment, he sees her eyes go wide and her lips part, a smile started at her mouth. Her fingertips go white from clutching the menus so tight. “Oh my god.”

“Hi.” Harry drags out, dimpling out his cheek and he swears he hears the girl in the back swoon.

Interjecting, in a rush Zayn starts, “We’ll take two cuppas, and fish and chips, love. Cheers.”

"Actually," Harry interrupts with a finger, "I'll take a strawberry milkshake."

Perrie tears her eyes away from Harry enough to glance back at Zayn and nods, shutting her open mouth. Her eyes keep looking back to Harry as she sets down the menus on the table to scribble down the order onto her notepad. And when she’s done, she claps her hands together and takes the menus away with one long, last lingering look and disappears off into the kitchens.

Several minutes of silence pass and when Harry meets Zayn’s eyes, he’s shaking his head. Harry shrugs one of his shoulders, “She’s nice.” he says and Zayn looks away, rubbing one of his eyes with his forefinger.

The other waitress, Jade, approaches their table and sets down Zayn's cup of tea and a large glass containing Harry's milkshake. She walks away with a smirk to her mouth.

“Yeah, she’s cool, s’nice girl.” Zayn mumbles and snags a couple of sugar packets out of the small bowl shoved against the spot on the table that meets the wall. He rips two of them and shakes the contains into the black tea.

Harry’s hand reaches for a couple of sugar packets of his own and sets them down next to his glass. Picking up his napkin, he unwraps the utensils inside. “Are you two friends?”

“She used to be my girlfriend.”

The spoon slips from Harry’s grasp and lands with a clang on top of the glass sharply before clambering out onto the middle of the table. Zayn lazily picks his gaze up and Harry clears his throat, collecting the spoon and tearing the sugar packets into his milkshake before stirring fervently into the glass. “Sorry.” They lapse into silence as they fix their drinks, Harry reaching over Zayn’s arm to grab a few more packets of sugar for himself and Zayn blows the steam off from the top, taking a tentative sip.

"Why are you putting sugar into your milkshake?" Zayn asks and raises an eyebrow. "Isn't the whole point of a milkshake is it’s supposed to be sweet already?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Harry licks the strawberry coated spoon. "I like it extra sweet, I guess." He flicks his gaze up at Zayn who purses his lips momentarily before taking another slurp. "So, um.” Harry presses his lips together in pause, bringing a hand to the back to his neck as he stirs, the spoon gently hitting the inside of the glass. “You should, uh, tell me about yourself.”

“I’m pretty sure you already know a little about me.” He says, bringing the mug up to his lips and takes another sip, one of his eyebrows lifting. Setting the mug down, he licks his lips and crosses his arms over the table. “And I’m also pretty sure _everyone_ knows a little about you.”

Pursing his lips, Harry narrows his eyes and taps his rings on the rippled side of the glass in his hands. “Does everyone… know that I used to be a baker?”

“All of your fans, probably, yeah.”

“But did _you_ know that?”

And much to Harry’s surprise, he doesn’t. Zayn opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t say anything. No words come out and he’s left there, furrowing his brow with a loss of words for what to say. “Actually, no.” Harry smiles at that, wide and dimpling with satisfaction crossing his expression. Rolling his eyes, Zayn crosses his arms over his chest once more and settles back against the leather seating. “Alright then, popstar. What else have you got for me?”

“Nope,” Harry says, shaking his head and points a finger at him. “You have to tell me something now.”

“What do I tell you?”

“I dunno, anything.” Licking his lips, Harry shifts in his seat as he tilts his head in the direction of the kitchens. And when he speaks, his tone is hushed. “Tell me about Perrie.”

“I just told you, she’s my ex.”

“Okay, well, how did you meet? Why’d you break up--”

Zayn lets out a laugh that sounds like a sarcastic chuckle. He reaches for his mug, but just holds it between his hands, soaking the warmth through his palms. “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

“Should I tell you something personal first, then?”

Tongue on the inside of his cheek, Zayn peers down onto the table and runs his fingers over the side of his cup. In the proper lighting now, Harry takes a good look at the bird tattoo on Zayn’s hand. And when Zayn doesn’t respond to him, Harry’s eyes focus back on Zayn’s face, waiting. “Em,” he drags and takes his bottom lip into his mouth in thought. “We met through a couple of mates. We, uh, we started kinda like, messing around until it just became a regular thing. We were on and off for about three years and then we just decided to see other people.” Sighing, Zayn shrugs his shoulders and then takes another sip of his tea. When he sets the cup down, he flicks his wrist toward Harry. “Your turn.”

“Did you love her?”

“I said it was your turn.”

“So, are you in a relationship now, then?”

_“Harry.”_

“Right, fine, okay.” Humming, he wiggles his fingers around his glass. “Ah, okay. When I was fourteen, I really liked to collect pens. Like, really, really liked pens. I had pens of all kind, every colour I could find, no matter what. And there was no question about it, I needed to have a pen I didn’t already have. Like, I even had one of those massive, massive pens that you kinda need to have two hands to hold?” Zayn nods. “Okay, well. My sister just turned seventeen that year. And we’re really close, so we’re always leaving things in each others rooms, so I thought I had left my Gandalf keychain in there. So, I was looking and looking, and then I looked under her bed. And she had like, this shoebox. So, I look in this shoe box and I become so excited because I find this really big pen, but I couldn’t find how to get the point out.” Zayn’s brows furrow and the corner of Harry’s mouth twitches. “I find this knob on the side, so I start to think I’ve got it. And then it starts to vibrate.”

A split-second silence cuts the pair of them until Zayn bursts into laughter. He brings his arm to cover his smile, but Harry sees the flash of his teeth before he does. “Oh my god, did she ever find out?”

“I literally came out of her room waving it around. She was absolutely mortified and still refuses to speak to me for days if I bring it up.” Unable to hold back a laugh of his own, Harry chuckles at himself and shrugs.

And with a shake of his head, Zayn rubs a hand over his forehead in exasperation. “Wow. Gotta say, that’s pretty unfortunate. And so fucking embarrassing.”

“But,” Harry says before he takes a sip of his milkshake, the straw sitting in between his lips. “Now you have to answer my two questions.”

He looks a bit uncomfortable at that, narrowing his eyes and his fingers picking at the skin on his lips. "Why don't you drink your terrible milkshake, you've barely touched it."

Harry's brow furrows and his expression reads offense. "I had a few sips."

" _Sips_ ," Zayn emphasizes with precise lips. "Drink it."

"If I drink some, will you answer my question?” Harry flutters his eyelashes playfully, the straw brushing his lips and Zayn looks on impatiently, his arms still crossed over his chest.

“Yeah, fine, whatever.” he mumbles, bringing his hand up to rub at his eye. Obedient, Harry takes a couple of long sips of the milkshake before pulling off from the straw, eyes squinting and mouth open.

“My mouth is cold.” he whines and when Zayn looks unimpressed, a cheeky smile quivers at the corner of his mouth. “You should warm it.”

The lines in his face etch into a scowl. “I think you’re still drunk.” Zayn says in relatination before sighing and taking a sip of his tea. But a deals and deal and there’s a short pause. Harry thinks perhaps he doesn’t open up to people, doesn’t trust people too easily, something that was always Harry’s fatal flaw. “I--” he starts and pauses again, Zayn pressing his lips together and rubbing at his chin. “I guess not? So, no, I didn’t love her and no, I’m not in a relationship.”

“But do you _want_ to be in a relationship?”

“It’s your turn again, popstar.”

“I’ve just decided I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

“Oh my god,” Zayn claps his hands against his thigh, breaking out into a smile and Harry watches as the light in his eyes flash. From behind them, Perrie approaches them carrying a hot plate on a tray. “You are impossible.” She sets the single plate down between them, along with two glasses of water that she places on either end. They both thank her and poke at the chips with their fingers. “How does your team even manage to work with you?”

"Believe me, they don't." But it's the way that he says it that makes the smile on Zayn's mouth quiver. It's the way that Harry says it, bitter sounding on his tongue, sharp without meaning to be so, but Zayn catches the distress that falls from Harry's mouth in an instant. And it isn't a lie either; they don't handle him because Harry doesn't give them a hard time. He does what he was to blindedly, with very fight because there's point in doing so. They don't put up with him because who he is, is stripped down until he's polished to appear everything he isn't. And for a moment, that stretch of time that passes, Harry thinks that Zayn doesn't and will never understand. But Zayn watches the conflict in Harry's eyes, while his own are terribly sympathetic. And Harry remembers that there is Veronica and the fact that very few people see who anyone truly is.

In order to rid himself of the last of his nerves and drunken headache, he grabs a couple of chips and shoves them into his mouth. He makes a motion with his hand that suggests he wants Zayn to continue. "How'd you start working for Temptation?"

Zayn pauses, his gaze lingering. His fingers and the side of his mouth twitches and instead of answering right away, he reaches for his utensils and rolls his fork between his fingers. "How about we save the rest until after the chips?" And he stabs one of the pieces of fish, breaking off a fried piece and bites into it with a crunch. Harry really can't argue with that.

They finish the meal with mild chatter, Perrie and Jade pulling in chairs when the diner’s dead when no one else comes streaming in. The girls (of course) engage in conversation about Harry’s fame and music. And it’s great, Harry always loved talking to their fans and hearing their feedback. But Zayn doesn’t take part in the conversation, his eyes are instead fixated on his new cup of tea that Perrie placed on the table before she pulled up a seat, warming his hands against the sides.

Harry pays for the meal, courtesy of taking Zayn out and they leave the diner (not without a couple of photos and autographs for the lovely ladies). Filing back into the street, the weather had gone down a couple of degrees, cold against their skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. A thin drizzle of rain covers the streets and flecks their bodies. Zayn huddles inside his jacket to seek warmth and Harry has to endure the rain with nothing but his long sleeved black sweater that droops over his collarbones. The streets are clearer in the early-morning-and-late-night in between state, very few cars passing every ten minutes. Girls in high heels and men in expensive looking suits click their shoes against the pavement, standing in the crosswalks as they file out of clubs and fancy bars. They stop in the street, Harry tucking his mobile out of the front pocket of his jeans. The screen flashes several missed calls and voicemails from Paul, text messages that appeared it took ages for him to write (where r u ????).

_I’m fine, just out. Let you know when I’ll be back xx._

“What’s the matter?” Zayn smirks as Harry slips his phone back into his pocket. He pauses in the street, amused. “Can’t go anywhere without your entourage babying you?”

Harry frowns, licking his lips and running a hand through his hair to push it off his forehead. “No.” he says, his back straightening in defense. “I can go anywhere I want. I don’t need anyone _babying me_.”

“No?” Zayn asks, raising his brows in question. The corner of his mouth twitches, unable to hold back a smile. The streetlamps cast a orange light on the side of Zayn’s face, his eyelashes shadowing webs underneath his eyes. “You seem like you like to be babied.”

“You know, for someone who seems to hate me, you love to tease me.”

Zayn shrugs his shoulders, the smile still on his mouth and he blinks in a slow manner. “Never said I hated you, did I, popstar?”

And Harry doesn’t know what to make of that. Because Zayn never showed any interest into him, not in his music or Harry as a person. They met in the strangest of ways that left them in a state that neither one of them knew how to approach. And because it was natural for him to do so, Zayn retaliated with the only way he knew how; in defense only for himself. Nobody’s feels were more important than his own, according to Zayn. No matter who or what the cost was, he doesn’t trust anyone until they give him a reason to. Zayn took care of himself.

But now, there’s a glint in Zayn’s eyes that hadn’t been there before, that lingers in the dark. And it’s like the talk over fish and chips, and two cups of tea have softened Zayn’s hard exterior. And it’s without him feeling completely vulnerable, but comfortable enough that he can let his guard down just the tiniest bit.

“We should go to the pier.” Harry says instead and Zayn breathes, exhaling into the night. Zayn gives him a perplexed look like he doesn’t know where that suddenly came from. But he nods anyway without saying anything.

They end up hauling a taxi on the next corner of the street, the tires screeching to a stop. Harry throws the driver a hundred, tells him to keep the change when they slide into the cab. More than happy to accommodate them, the driver turns the radio up while he drives, Zayn and Harry pressed in close together in the back of the car with their thighs touching. It’s a half hour drive to the pier, and both looking out their respective windows, Harry sees the world go by him in a whirl of colours and lights. And then the car pulls over and it stops. The world pauses and Harry gets out of the taxi with Zayn, slamming the doors behind them.

And it stops. The world comes to a complete and total stop. It just becomes they and the sea when they approach the railing. Out beyond, the water moves in languid motion and nothing else exists. Harry doesn’t exist, Zayn does not exist either and it all falls into nothing. Silence seems to stretch on between them and become never changing. The clean air tousles their hair, the metal underneath their fingers cold and their clothes damp with the oncoming rain. And the silence that settles is steady and comfortable, with the slight fear of anxiety that looking out into the sea, there’s something so much bigger than them out in the world. Harry feels it, vibrations in his chest all the way down to his toes, fingers numb. And all he thinks is five years, five years he’s been out in the world, five years he has seen more of the world than anyone could hope for. And yet, he never looked out to the sea and thought about the chaotic, unpredictable calm of water and to relate it in place of where he is now.

“I’ve only ever been here once.” Harry speaks, his hands holding onto the railing and Zayn’s body moves like smoke when they stand next to each other. Their shoulders brush, but the feeling is numb and Harry can’t feel anything but the cold metal underneath his fingers, and the wind on his face. “The weekend before I went on the X-Factor. Just me, my sister and my mum. And then everything kind of changed.”

“Kind of?” Zayn muses beside him, breath puffing out like smoke. “Everything’s changed.”

He chews the bottom of his lip, shaking his head like he’s processing the words. “It’s weird.” he says, looking out to the water, his fingers gripping the railing. “Like, I love music. I love doing this and I want to be able to do this for the rest of my life. Even when I’m like, old and withered, I want to keep doing it.” He doesn’t look at Zayn directly, but he could see from the corner of his eye that Zayn’s looking at him and his eyes doesn’t leave him. “And like, that’s how it always should be. My mum always told me when I was little to love what you’re doing and never do anything less. Go for what your heart tells you, and that. And -- it’s not like I’m ungrateful for what I have. I have everything I’ve ever wanted. I get to see the world and all of it’s places, but somehow I always feel like I’m stuck in the same place wherever I go, whatever I do, no matter what I achieve.” Pressing his lips together, he squints out into the darkness, the sound of the sea and Zayn’s breathing soothing. “I don’t know how to explain it, exactly.”

“I think I get it,” Zayn pipes up, taking another breath while leaning his slim body against the railing. He crosses his arms over his chest and tips his chin up toward the sky. “Even if our situations are different. You know, I -- I love art. I love drawing and like, just chilling and be able to be by myself and just draw. It feels good. I love writing too, English was like, my favorite subject when I was little.”

“Why didn’t you do that? Go for art or English, I mean.”

"Because money is money." Zayn sighs, turning his gaze toward the pavement. His eyes don't meet Harry's, transfixed on a deep crack formed in the cement. Harry doesn't take his eyes off Zayn though, let's his eyes stay on the Arabic writing of his collarbone, the sharpness of his cheeks, the long, jet black strokes of his eyelashes. “The way we make money isn’t so different from each other. I give people my body. You give people your voice, your music. But you still give them your body, too, don’t you? You go out every night in the flesh and people touch you because they want to touch you and you let them because that is making business. That is the entertainment industry, that is selling yourself. And how is that any different than me, Harry Styles?” With a slow upturn of his chin, Zayn glances at Harry through his eyelashes for just a brief moment before looking away again. “It isn’t.”

And Harry’s never thought about it that way. He always knew that with entertainment, came making their client look presentable. He knew it was more than just about the music, he lived it everyday. Nights when he locked himself in whatever room he could find in solitude. He turned away from the spotlight when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, giving himself a moment to breathe again and to re evaluate it all. To decide whether or not he still wants to do those But now, it’s more than looking presentable. It’s about packaging. It's about going to sleep every night and doing it all over again when he gets up in the morning. A performance that never ends and never stops. It’s about looking good, friendly, approachable and selling that polished innocent into a world that isn't so innocent. It’s about making as much money as they can out of their clients, about milking all they can and are able to do. It’s about being and looking desirable while being in a light in favor of the public. And it’s the very public that can make or break him. The world will always continue on with or without their Harry Styles.

Harry looks away from Zayn, his eyes falling to his hands, to the sea and out beyond the lights. In a world this big, Harry reminds himself that he could just fade into the background and disappear without a trace. And somewhere down the line, someone will remember him. They will think back to a time that no longer exists, and they will say, _'Do you remember Harry Styles?'_ And some will, but most won't. The world that once known him would begin to die out and the world will take a new polished innocent to next step into the spotlight, a cycle that never ends, never stops and just keeps going.

**  
**

And pushing himself off of the railing, Zayn places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. Light and gentle, he gives a squeeze that makes Harry pick his head up. They find each other’s eyes and they don’t have to say anything. The silence is enough.

But the silence that settles in only lasts for so long. Several whispers start behind them and they see the bright light of the flash go off somewhere to their right. Zayn is the first one to detect it, his hand falling from Harry’s shoulder while Harry’s whole body goes rigid. Fuck. A group of paps come, camera’s in tow and snapping pictures while calling Harry’s name.

“Harry, Harry! Look over here!”

“Harry, you disappeared from your release party, where’d you go?”

“Harry!”

“Shit,” Harry mumbles and puts a forceful hand on the place where Zayn’s shoulder meets his neck. Catching a fist full of his tee shirt underneath, he pulls harshly as Harry prepares to break into a run. Zayn doesn’t miss a beat behind him.

Running away from the paps isn’t easy. Some of them get back in their cars to tail the two boys, more yelling in the early morning and blinding flashes of lights from their camera’s. Paul’s definitely going to be on his arse in the morning for fucking up and being photographed with a boy that they will think he pulled from the club. They keep running side by side before Zayn stops, reaching for Harry’s arm and shoving him into an alleyway. The shouting keeps mouthing off somewhere in the distance and Harry keeps running just before Zayn grasps his wrist and tugs in a jerking manner, into the brick of one of the walls.

His head hits the back, scraping his ear and he doesn’t recover enough to feel the first press of Zayn’s body on his. But as the brief pain subsides, Zayn’s hands come to Harry’s hips and the warmth of his palms seeps into Harry’s tee shirt. Harry’s breath catches from this close, Zayn’s head turned in the direction of the end of the alleyway. He stares at the smooth plane of Zayn’s neck, his lips parted and eyes alert. Zayn’s lips move, his eyes lidded and he turns his attention toward Harry, Harry’s breath fanning Zayn’s cheeks.

“I said I think we lost them.”

Harry blinks, unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “What?”

A slow smile forms on Zayn’s lips, tugging at the edges until the corners of his eyes squint and it’s the most genuine smile Harry’s ever witnessed. Thunder rumbles in the sky above them, the drizzle of the rain returning this time in fat drops. One falls on Zayn’s nose and rolls down towards his lips. “My flat’s a couple of blocks away.”

Opening his mouth to speak, Harry nods and Zayn’s hands fall from his waist. Still leaning against the brick of the building, Harry watches as Zayn keeps himself close, Harry catching his breath as his gaze brush over him in one clean sweep. With one hand, he grabs Harry’s hand and holds it open, and while never leaving his gaze, Zayn slips his hand into Harry’s.

“Come on then, popstar.”

*** * ***

Zayn’s flat is a small studio with a queen sized bed shoved in one of the corners of the room. There’s only a few pieces of furniture; a used leather couch with a couple of rips in the seams, the insides spilling out. A two seat dining table sits next to the tiny kitchen space, rings from mugs stained into the wood. The sink is clean though and the countertops are a cloudy steel, cabinets and drawers a dark oak. The walls are covered by artist papers the size of a dinner table, drawings sprawled out on each and every strip, and underneath them the walls are the colour of an eggshell. A twelve inch television set stands on a pile of textbooks underneath a fuzzy purple carpet. Several large sketch pads and canvases lean upon the walls, a bucket of spray paint cans sit next to them and kits of pastels and paint brushes are kept in an empty flower vase.

“Tea?” Zayn asks and shrugs off his jacket, throwing it over the couch. He toes out of his shoes and Harry does the same although he much feels like intruding on Zayn’s personal space. He nods though and Zayn heads into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

Harry doesn’t know where to put himself as he enters. He tries to decide where he should sit and so he loiters around the space of the living room. His long limbs hang awkwardly as he shuffles his feet against the wood of the floor. “So,” he starts, voice loud enough for Zayn to hear him from inside the kitchen.

He had dated a girl named Perrie never for too long before sooner or later, their break up mutual. He spends his down time with his hands covered in spray paint, drawing superheroes and words like poems consisting of just a couple words. He writes, folders filled with loose leaf paper and writing scrawled upon the page in his handwriting. He only speaks in low tones, but has a sharp, biting voice when he needs it. He works at a club where he must put on the persona as a different person, where he puts on a mask and deals with rough, drunk customers and serves them more drinks because he can't tell them how he really feels about their sleazy manner. And he fucks for money on the sidelines, let's other men run their hands over his body and lets him be used because that is what he's used to. These are all the things he knows about Zayn, and yet there are still so much Harry doesn't know about this boy he met so unexpectedly. "You never told me how you got started? You know, how’d you get into Temptation?”

A naturally guarded person, Harry comes to learn Zayn is. And yet, the pier to him had been a moment where they both let their guard fall. They let the rain of the nights drizzle touch their skin and wash away any impurities, wash away all of the thoughts they'd been harbouring and keeping shut behind their rib cages, and spill out into the pavement, the sea, and to each other too.

A few clambering noises sound, metal hitting metal. He pictures Zayn, fingers clutching the edge of the countertop and staring down into the chrome wondering if he should open himself up, to unstitch his chest and lay out all his demons. “How’d I started working there, or how I started fucking for money?” Zayn calls and Harry’s face goes a little pink at the wording.

Harry pauses, his eyes narrowing and shame filling the space of his chest, a part of him thankful that Zayn can’t see his face. “I -- both, I guess.” He licks his lips and swallows hard, moving into the kitchen. Watching Zayn take a seat at the dingy table, Harry follows and sits across from him.

“I had sex with people for money long before I got the gig at Temptation.” Zayn begins in a breath, slouching in his chair. “I was going to uni for a little bit, but I dropped out when I was nineteen. It was just like, really hard because I really didn’t know what to do? I was like, kinda stuck and money was getting tight that I had to live with my older sister for a while. I was, at the time, living with a couple of flatmates, but I couldn’t help with money so I just left and I knew I had to do something. I tried getting a job, but nothing was consistent. It was a process that took too long and I didn’t want to have to wait. So, I just started going around uni and at first, it was just, like, smaller things. I’d get people off with my hands or my mouth, but then it -- fell into other things, I guess? I met Louis one time at a club and he told me about Temptation ‘cause he was working there at the time. So, I just went for the gig and now I dance and work with waiting while still doing what I have to do on the side.”

“And you like it?”

Zayn gives him a pained kind of smile, his shoulder coming up to meet his ear. “Money is money, Harry.” he echoes. “Sometimes I don’t like what I have to do, but at the end of the day, it just is.”

“But you must get a lot of money then, though.” Harry starts and the sound of the tea kettle going off whistles. Zayn picks himself out of his seat and turns the stove off, grabbing two mugs from the top cupboard. Scratching the inside of his palm with his fingernails, Harry hesitates. “So, why--?”

“Why do I live in a crap apartment with soddy furniture?” When Zayn chuckles, Harry feels a cloud of embarrassment harbor in his chest, tightening and he thinks perhaps it wasn’t the best question to ask, nor to think of in Zayn’s position. “I just -- I don’t need anything but my family. I give them all that they need because I don’t really need much at the end of the day. I just need clothes on my back, a roof over my head. But they need more, so that’s what I give them.”

"That's really -- is amazing to hear about how much your family means to you." As Harry says it, Zayn flushes and he looks down at the table to hide it when he returns. He places the mug down in front of Harry. And avoiding Harry's gaze, he says, "Do you want some dry clothes?"

Harry brings the mug up to his lips again and takes a sip of the tea. Too hot on his tongue though, he coughs and his eyes water. Zayn looks on, the side of his mouth curling up into a smile and he gently shakes his head, chest shaking with soft laughter. Sweater hanging heavy from his limbs, Harry doesn't notice how wet the two of them are until then. "Oh--" he looks down on himself, wiggles his toes in his soaked through socks. "That'd be nice, thanks."

Nodding, Zayn takes a sip of his tea and gestures toward the dresser next to the bed. "You can help yourself." He picks at the end of his tee shirt, pressing his lips together with a pause. "You don't," he starts, motioning toward a shut door near the bathroom. "You don't mind if I shower, do you?"

Harry takes another sip of his own tea and shakes his head with vigor, drink hot on his tongue. "No," he coughs out and fidgety places the mug back on the table. "Not at all, I'm only a guest anyway." The look that Zayn gives him, all slow blinking and half lidded eyes with his lips just slightly parted. His expression becomes soft, long lashes brushing the top of his cheeks. The white muscle top hangs from his shoulders, inked arms crossing over his chest. A tired smile finds its way onto his mouth.

Without another word, but not without a last glance, Zayn takes another sip of his tea and Harry's left sitting at his old dining table, staring at Zayn's back as he leaves. The door shuts behind him, and for a minute or so, Harry sits in complete silence before the rushing sound of water from the shower head echoes from underneath the slit in the door. And Harry sighs, setting his teacup down onto the table with soft clatter. Running his fingers through the damp strands of his hair, he trains his eyes to the table before looking up toward the bedroom side of the studio. The dresser Zayn referred to sits against the wall, a lamp and several photographs are littered about the space.

He stands up from his spot and tentatively crosses the room, rubbing his hands on the front of his jeans. The biggest photo on top of the dresser is of Zayn surrounded by three girls, all Harry assumes his Zayn's sisters. The deep love that Zayn has for his family becomes all the more apparent with every photo that Harry's eyes meet. Another photo is again of Zayn, except much younger, appearing at the age of roughly ten years. He smiles while a man embraces him from behind, and Harry thinks that Zayn looks a lot like him, and of the woman in the next photo that stands against a tall wax warmer, an assortment of wax cubes scattered haphazardly about the top. And with the knowledge that Zayn gives everything to his family, his family means everything to him, sacrificing it all for them. Harry thinks of his relationship with his mum, Gemma and Robin, and the pain that aches through him is real, knowing that time is a precious, intangible thing.

He wipes the corner of his eyes before Harry helps himself, starting at the first drawer at the top and tugging it open.

But he's not met with tee shirts. His sentimental thoughts of home are gone when instead, Harry opens the drawer to various coloured laced panties, flesh coloured stockings and black garter belts. On the other side of the drawer, sits folded pairs of boxer briefs. Coughing into the collar of his shirt, Harry struggles to close it and it shuts with a sharp snap. He presses on his crotch to fix his dick with a breath.

The next drawer gives Harry better luck, and he sighs in relief when he pulls out a black Iron Maiden tee shirt. The sound to the shower turns off when Harry holds the clean tee shirt between his knees and throws his sweater over his shoulders. He stands in the room, grabbing his tee shirt and replacing with his sweater to hold it in the middle of both his thighs.

Zayn steps out of the bathroom before Harry can fit into his shirt. His hair falls to one side of his face, inky black and dripping water onto his chest. There's the tattoos Harry saw makeup caked over clearly now, covering the planes of his chest, pelvis and shoulders. A towel hangs low on his hips, water droplets running down his neck, down the muscles of his stomach, and disappears under the white towel. He stands in the doorway, steam rolling out of the bathroom behind him.

Harry stops, blinks and closes his mouth, fingers on the tee shirt gripping tighter. Flickering off the lights in the bathroom, Zayn meets Harry's eyes and with a blush, Harry looks away while the redness in his cheeks flame all the way to the back of his neck and ears. He doesn't move just yet either, Zayn's eyes lingering as Harry stands shirtless in the middle of Zayn's make shift bedroom.

"I'm living every teenagers wet dream." Zayn muses when he finally moves, feet pattering against the hardwood flooring as he walks. He brushes by Harry's bare arm and the spicy scent of Zayn's body wash fills Harry's entire senses, inhaling until he could feel it in the pit of his belly. Harry doesn't speak yet, but watches the muscles of Zayn's back ripple when he tugs the first drawer open.

He looks away and swallows hard, refusing to watch just which underwear Zayn chooses to wear. Violently clearing his throat and fumbling with Zayn's shirt, he says, "Not every teenager." He pulls the shirt over his head and it's tight on his shoulders when he adjusts the bottom hem around his middle.

By the time he looks up, Zayn's dressed into a pair of black sweat pants and drying his hair with the towel. "You know, you're not how I expected to be, popstar." He throws the towel over on the end of the bed and pushes his hand through his damp hair. It falls around his head in angles that Harry finds endearing.

"And how's that?" Harry asks, grabbing his sweater from in between his knees and folding it before politely hugging it to his chest.

Zayn seems to consider his next move, as he stands there and let's his gaze pour over Harry almost like he's sizing him up. And then he moves, hips moving in precision that makes Harry stare. He walks right into Harry's space, eyes intense and Harry doesn't look away even when Zayn's fingers pry the sweater out of his grasp, one hand wrapping his fingers around Harry's wrist, and with the other, tosses it onto the bed. "Well," he starts, "I always thought you'd be a right prat. Didn't think you'd be so quirky."

"Hey," Harry drags out defensively, but Zayn falls into such a soft, closed lipped laughter that he can't help to smile himself. It's a comfortable, fuzzy feeling Harry feels warm within him. This Zayn, softer than the red wine sipping Zayn he met at the club, softer than the guarded Zayn at the cafe. But perhaps Zayn was always this soft, it just takes a while to see the sharp edges of him aren't really there. He just takes care of himself.

"Is there anything else you need?" Zayn asks, gaze breaking and he walks into the direction of the living room, grabbing an old and unclean mug from the coffee table. Quickly, he enters the kitchen and sets the mug down into the sink before he turns back toward Harry, his hands and fingers laced together at his front and eyes questioning.

The bird tattoo stares back at Harry, moving when Zayn's fingers twitch. He thinks of all the times he'd seen that tattoo; staring through a crack in the door, Veronica setting his drink down, and Zayn's smooth fingers tracing the bottom ring on a wine glass. "Can I ask you a question?"

Zayn's fingers pause and his shoulders tense, but he nods, a strand of his hair falling onto his forehead and into his eyes.

"What about Veronica?"

There's a brief moment of pause where Zayn just _stares_. Harry's heartbeat stutters within the confines of his chest, nervous he said the wrong thing. "What about her?"

"Um--" he pauses, his hands coming to behind his back and he toes the floor with his boot. Looking away, Harry doesn't meet Zayn's eyes. "I don't know, I -- she's a big part of you."

When Zayn doesn't immediately say anything, he sees how Zayn bites at his lip as Harry looks up. Zayn blinks before nodding, his shoulders coming up in a shrug and he moves toward the couch, settling into the pillows and sinking into the fitting its. "Yeah, I guess she is."

Harry chances forward, taking slow steps until he approaches the small sofa. Their knees touch when he takes a seat next to him, but it's much different than in the cab. There's no where else to look this time but at each other. "And that started with Temptation? I mean --" he shifts in his seat and clears his throat, correcting himself with emphasis. Zayn lazily looks up at him, corner of his mouth quivering. "She started with Temptation?"

"I --" Zayn's brow furrows and he bites his bottom lip before answering. "I think," he says slow and syrupy, eyes squinting like he doesn't know what to say or how to say it. "She was," he says, building confidence that Harry sees in the way Zayn's shoulders move. "Kind of always there? It was weird because when I was back in college, some guys liked me to dress up and I did. And I liked it, I guess. So, I didn't really mind dressing in drag when it came to Temptation."

Harry stays silent, listening to Zayn speak even after he's finished. The rings on his fingers tap against his thigh and he tries not to think about Zayn dressing as Veronica. He tries not to think about Zayn in the cute panties away in his dresser, and Harry definitely tries not to think about fucking Veronica, her glasses askew on her nose as she moans.

Without even processing what he's seeing, Harry watches as Zayn looks down at his hands, watching how Harry's fingers work. Tap, tap, tap against the denims clad thighs. Until one of Zayn's hands releases itself from its grip and follows the plane of Harry's to find his hand. His forefinger strokes the inside of Harry's thumb, swiping his fingers across Harry's hand and accidentally strokes his thigh. And Harry stops fidgeting, fingers curling around Zayn's.

"Are you not going to talk about it?" Voice low, Zayn doesn't look up and just continues the movement of his fingers. When he presses his hand fully against Harry's, hands slipping and falling into place, the heat that seeps into Harry's palm from Zayn's hand is enough to make his head spin. Underneath, Harry's own hand twitches from the heat rising in the pit of his belly.

He swallows hard, voice coming out an octave below his normal pitch. The intensity of Zayn's gaze makes him want to look away, but he doesn't. "Talk about what?" And although he asks, Harry isn't oblivious. Because the same hand that Zayn touches him with, is the same hand with the bird in flight.

"How you saw me in that room?"

Just seven words jogs Harry's memories back at the club; the Long Island Iced Tea's, the narrow corridor, the employees only bathroom, watching Zayn half undressed as Veronica being fucked violently over a couch, and Zayn coming with their eyes still completely fixated on one another. It sparks recognition to Harry's cock, heart beating loud in his ears, and god-fucking-damn that was a little unfair. Because Harry thought he wasn't supposed to talk about it, that talking about Veronica getting fucked meant talking about Zayn assuming Harry wanted sex from him. He thought it meant that if he brought it up, it was an indication that he _did_ want to fuck Zayn. But now, the way that Zayn looks back at him, eyes heavy, pupils wide, and hands lingering, Zayn's silently begging to talk about it.

"You looked at me," Harry starts quietly, voice shot and he feels Zayn's fingers curl around his own. "And you moaned and you came."

Zayn doesn't look away from him and his fingers don't stop moving. When Harry's fingers finally twitches underneath his, Zayn looks up at him, his eyes unreadable. "Yeah," he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and for the second time that night, Harry follows the action. "I did."

Swallowing hard with his heart beat stuttering within his chest, Zayn licks his lips again before he picks his hand off of Harry's hand. He feels the absence of Zayn's touch, fingers twitching with ache. But Zayn's warm touch returns when he cradles the back of Harry's neck and his fingers toy with the hair that sits there. Eyelids fluttering, Harry feels himself fall into Zayn's touch, Zayn's everything, and licks his lips involuntarily when he leans close enough that their noses brush. And Harry’s entire world spins with Zayn’s breath fanning his lips, and it takes him everything to nudge him closer.

Zayn's the first one to lean in for the kiss, the one they saw coming since back in the alleyway, when their bodies pressed and were firmly aligned. He captures Harry's top lip in his mouth and his teeth scrape the skin just enough for Harry’s body to tense, hand reaching out to Zayn’s shoulder and squeezes, blunt fingernails digging into the bare flesh. Breathing in sharply, holds it the moan that bubbles through his chest as Zayn kisses him, biting at Harry’s lip until it becomes swollen and red.

And Harry never thought he’d be kissing Zayn like this, sitting on his old ragged up sofa with Zayn already shirtless. He never thought that he’d be kissing him in Zayn’s house, no less, phone set on silent that he’s sure is blown up with more text messages from Paul asking where the fuck he is. But it’s that recklessness that makes this whole ordeal with Zayn more exciting. Zayn isn’t kissing Harry because he expects to be fucked, he doesn’t kiss him because he didn't have to kiss Harry if he didn’t want to. Harry never once made a proper move on him, because that was what Zayn expected him to do, simply because everyone else did. Zayn was used to being used and abused, but maybe the simple boy from a simple town was too.

Harry pulls away, bringing his hand up to Zayn’s chest and pushing until their mouths disconnected, Zayn opening his eyes and peering back at Harry again with tender eyes. Fuck. “We don’t have to do this,” Harry says and he sounds like he’s sixteen again and losing his virginity for the first time in his life. He feels small and young and inexperienced, all of the things he knows he’s not anymore and Zayn only reminds him again when he kicks a leg over Harry’s thigh and settles down into his lap. At a loss for words, Harry could only hold his breath and stare, eyes wide as their lower bellies touch and if Harry concentrates hard enough, he could feel Zayn’s dick brushing just below Harry’s belly button. Harry’s hands hover just above Zayn’s hips, unsure where exactly to put them. “I told you, I didn’t -- I don’t--”

“Do you want me to stop?” his voice comes out slow, accent stronger than Harry has ever heard throughout their night together so far. He brings his hands up to Harry’s shoulders and touches him there, his fingertips lightly brushing the skin as he strokes down to Harry’s forearms, ghosting them back up again. Hazel irises darken as his eyes flicker to Harry’s lips, to his eyes and back, and Harry doesn’t look away because he can’t. And when Harry opens his mouth to speak, Zayn presses a finger to his bottom lip, tracing his mouth. So he shakes his head in response to Zayn’s question and sees the way Zayn’s own lips quiver, perhaps wanting to smirk, but he gives in and reconnects their mouths again.

The kiss, this time, is not light. Zayn presses a bruising kiss to Harry’s mouth and at first, he struggles to meet Zayn’s pace, kisses too messy, too out of sync. Spit pools at the corner of Harry’s mouth, but recovers from the initial shock and chews at Zayn’s bottom lip to keep up. And Zayn keens too, a noise that sounds like a cross between a hum and a moan strumming in his throat, hands coming up to where Harry’s shoulder meets his neck. His fingers clutch there, grabbing at his own tee shirt and Harry can’t help it when his jaw twitches, forcing himself to bite down harder.

Zayn fucking loses it. And at first, Harry thinks he hurts Zayn by accident, that it was too much and hurt too much, ready to pull apart with an apology on the tip of his tongue. But then Zayn’s hips kink up, rolling in Harry’s lap and forces a gasp out of his mouth, his eyebrows knitting together as he squeezes his eyes shut. Their chests press together and Harry actually _feels_ Zayn’s dick fucking twitch and dig into his abdominal. And then Harry thinks a little bit differently.

He loosens his jaw, Zayn’s lip falling out between Harry’s teeth and he decides to hold Zayn by the waist, to keep him this close while Zayn straddles his lap. And the second the kiss breaks, Zayn breathes heavily in the little space between them, head resting in the crook of Harry’s neck. And he just stays there, his breathing hot on Harry’s skin and sending a creeping chill down his spine. Zayn stays there, lax in Harry’s lap, his hands still on his shoulders as he breathes for a moment before he moves them again, falling flat palmed down his chest until Zayn’s fingers find the buckle of Harry’s belt. Hooking his fingers around the loops, Zayn keeps his hands steady when he mouths at the hollow of Harry’s collarbone. And Harry can’t keep himself from whining in his throat. His eyelids keep fluttering, the feel of Zayn’s mouth hot and tonguing at his skin that’s sure to be bruised later.

He steadily starts to realize he’s hard when Zayn starts rolling his hips again and both their breathing start to match, moans slipping from their lips with every movement. Harry’s fingers dig into Zayn’s waist, grabbing him and holding him there to grind _just there_ and _just right_ , and Zayn removes his hands from Harry to hold the back of the couch behind Harry’s head to give some himself some leverage. And it works, giving just enough friction to their dicks that Harry thinks he could come just like this if he and Zayn wanted. His head falls back against the couch, Zayn still mouthing at every hollow, but it becomes messy and inconsistent when the pressure in their lower stomach builds.  

Nosing at Harry’s ear, Zayn slurs, "Fuck me," and tongues at Harry's earlobe as his hips grinds. And _fuck,_ it feels _good,_ the sound of Zayn's heavy breathing in Harry's ear, and Harry can’t stop himself, can’t stop when his mouth becomes slack and cants his hips up to meet Zayn’s. Hands cupping his ass, Harry squeezes as he moans low in his throat because _yes_ , he wants it _now_ , he wants it so fucking badly. He’s so hard and Zayn isn’t making it any better, knows what he’s doing with every fucking roll his hips make.

He noses at the side of Zayn’s neck, breathes in his body wash and the beginnings of sweat that starts to blanket the surface of his skin. “Yeah,” Harry mutters, teeth scraping at Zayn’s skin and tasting him on his tongue. “Wanna fuck you.” He palms at Zayn’s arse, fingers digging into the crack through his clothes, but Zayn pants at the teasing action.

Zayn drags out his hips as he grinds, smaller moans falling from his mouth, but he picks his head up out of Harry’s neck and kisses his mouth instead, hands leaving the back of the couch to cup Harry’s cheeks. And he kisses Harry hard, hips coming to a stop and when he pulls away, Zayn’s eyes are blown out and his cheeks are tinted a beautiful pink colour. They breath against each other’s lips, foreheads almost touching as they stop to catch their breath, Harry’s fingers dancing along the nobs of Zayn’s spine, thumbing the dimples in his back.

“I--” Zayn starts between breathes, but he eyes keep flashing to Harry’s lips and he doesn’t hesitate to lean in and leave a couple of short kisses to his mouth. “Need -- wanna--” Feeling bold, Harry leaves one hand on Zayn’s back while the other snaked between them, finding the waistband of Zayn’s sweatpants and pressing his palm to his clothed dick. Through lidded eyes, he watches Zayn’s lashes flutter beautifully. “Wanna do something for you.”

The pit of Harry’s belly clenches. Jerkily, he nods, licking his lips when Zayn gets up off Harry’s lap. And he closes his eyes, waiting for Zayn to get on his knees, but opens his eyes in shock when he hears the sound of Zayn shuffling away from him. Zayn moves quickly back toward where the bed is, bending to fetch something underneath the bed and Harry watches Zayn’s arse and thinks that he’s going to fuck that, Zayn wants him to fuck him, _oh my god._

And when Zayn pulls out a black duffel bag, straightening back up with a tent in the front of his sweatpants, Harry’s abs tighten, anticipating the surprise. He shuffles back toward the bathroom with the duffel bag in hand, and before he closes the door shut, Zayn turns back to Harry. Blinking slowly, his mouth opens and he swallows hard like he’s trying to remember what to say. “Don’t -- don’t let yourself get soft.” he says and Harry nods just before Zayn closes the door and leaves Harry there, hard and fucking waiting in his living room.

But he does what he’s told, palms at himself through his jeans and lets himself get close to the edge a couple of times before pulling off and letting the feeling tingle through his fingers and toes. And for twenty fucking minutes, Harry sits, hand on his dick and refusing not only to come, but refusing to actually touch his cock before Zayn returns. Behind the door to the bathroom, a series of rushed cluttering sounds, but Harry zones the noise out, tries to keep himself on edge and focuses on the sound of his increasing breathing pattern.

Veronica stands in the doorway when the bathroom door opens again. Her make up’s done in a rushed fashion behind an oval shaped pair of glasses, but there’s still precision to the winged eyeliner at the corners of her eyes. She stands there, a slightly different wig, (curled at the bottom covering her breasts, a sweep of side bangs brushed to one side of her forehead) leaning against the door frame dressed in a powder blue dress suit, skirt riding up her thigh. Her heels click the wooden floorboards as she taps her foot and Harry’s jaw drops, dick twitching in his jeans.

"I believe we have unfinished business, Mr. Styles." Veronica's accent is back, but when she smiles, all Harry could see is Zayn. Zayn smirking behind makeup and the want in her eyes is equal parts. Veronica wants Harry as much as Zayn wants Harry. And Harry is all for having both of them.

It takes a moment or two to collect himself and he knows that she sees it, sees the way he has to process what is happening. She smiles, her lips shining with a pink tinted lip-gloss and Harry really wants to lick into her mouth and see if it tastes of strawberries. "Yeah," he says when he finally recovers, squeezing his clothed cock one more time and watches as Veronica’s find his hand and watches the movement. And when Veronica doesn’t move, Harry takes the initiative because that is what she wants, and lifts himself off the couch, approaching Veronica with long strides. Her hand lays upon the door frame, waiting while nails scrape against the wood of the frame. One leg crosses behind the other and she brings her hand up to hide her smile, the break in character. "We do."

He takes lazy steps until there's hardly any room between them at all, chests almost touching and invading all of her space, breathing all of her air. Veronica doesn’t seem to mind, her eyes glancing back from Harry’s eyes to his lips like she doesn’t know where to look. And their chests do touch when Harry reaches a large hand out and wraps around Veronica's skim middle, pulling her close into him until their flush together. His breath beats against her flushed cheeks, but she stares up at him through her glasses, eyes not so innocent behind long lashes. Lips parted, Harry thinks about kissing her before he does.

Their mouths meet again and Harry wastes no time, tonguing at the seam of her lips and Veronica parts her mouth just enough for Harry’s tongue to press into the inside of her cheek. Her lip gloss messily smears on Harry’s mouth, but he kisses her hard enough for her to moan again, hand leaving the door frame to cup the back of Harry’s neck again. All while kissing her, Harry lifts her off from leaning against the wood, feet shuffling to lead her back toward the kitchen, Veronica’s hands roaming down Harry’s chest again to push his shirt up. Her fingers slip underneath and the muscles in Harry’s stomach tense underneath the pads of her fingertips.

It’s sudden, the way Harry grabs at Veronica’s wrist and tugs her hand away from his body. She gasps at the abruptness and Harry doesn’t give her any warning when he turns her around and bends her over the dining table. Zayn’s half empty mug of tea tips over and spills over the edge of the table, rolling off and cracks as the glass hits the floor. It's perhaps clumsy on Harry’s part, the way Veronica's hands hit the wood to soften the way her cheek leans upon it, straining on her glasses. And Zayn's low chuckle breaks through, her hips shifting against the table, grinding in a way that must give relief to her cock. But her arse is still up and Harry runs his fingers over the soft underside of Veronica's thighs while his other hand keeps busy in her hair, making sure to keep her pinned down. His breath is hot at the back of Veronica's neck and she closes her eyes at the feeling, her mouth slaked while Harry runs his hands up her skirt.

A small moan escapes from Veronica's mouth, low enough that it's hard to tell if Zayn's breaking character again. But he doesn't stop. It becomes a game, Harry caressing the skin of Veronica's legs and upper thigh until she let a moan give out and he slips his fingers up higher. Zayn hadn’t bothered with his hip pads for this occasion. He hadn’t bothered tucking his dick back, just wearing a pair of black laced panties underneath the skirt that mildly surprises Harry. He shudders at the the rough fabric underneath his fingertips, knowing that if he wanted to, he could just pull the undergarment off and easily fuck into her. He presses his thumb to her rim through the lace and Veronica's whole body shudders tenfold.

He leans in closer to her so that his back presses against hers, breath at the back of Veronica's neck. Thumb sliding down the crack of her arse, she lets out a strangled breath and Harry watches her eyes flutter closed before he presses a hard kiss to the back of her neck.

“Touch me,” she says, Zayn’s accent breaking through and for a moment, Harry thinks she breaks character completely, and that instead of touching Veronica, he’s touching Zayn. But she repeats herself two more times (“Touch me, touch me, _please_.”) in her clear and precise accent, but Harry doesn’t want to touch her just yet. He wants to drag this out for as long as possible, make Veronica weep while begging for it that when he finally gives her what she wants she won’t be able to last long.

Circling his thumb along her rim, Veronica’s hips follow Harry’s movement. With his free hand, he pushes Veronica’s hair off the back of her neck, attaching his mouth there and _sucks_. She hums in her chest, rocking against the table and the legs squeak, echoing like it’s mimicking their movements. “You want me to touch you?” he whispers against her ear, mouth taking her earlobe in his mouth, the metal of her earrings bitter on his tongue.

Veronica full out moans, slowly nodding her head just enough for Harry to keep biting at her earlobe and breath into her ear. And Harry drops his hand from underneath her skirt, Veronica’s eyes opening at the loss of contact. He lets her ear go from in between his teeth, picks himself off from leaning against her, Veronica left there trying to catch her breath still bent over the table. Harry fixes his crotch before he kneels down on the ground between Veronica’s legs, her backside in front of his face. And when he lifts her skirt up completely, arse clad in black laced panties, Veronica opens her legs wider and arches her back.

Fucking _christ_.

His hands roam the swell of each cheek, finger running down the crack. Veronica tenses and her breathing becomes audible, like she’s waiting for that moment when Harry hooks his finger around the panties and tugs them down her thighs. And when he does, the panties falling around her ankles, he’s met with her scent and there’s a stain from leaked precome visible on the lace. He hears Veronica move her arms to grip the table, bracing herself as she shifts her hips like she’s becoming impatient.

Biting at once of her arse cheeks, Harry’s hand shifts underneath Veronica’s parted legs, fingertip rubbing at the space between her hole and balls. He presses, adding pressure as he leaves a hickey on her arse, and Veronica moans loud again, the metal of her earrings hitting the table as she shifts her head to press her cheek to the cold wood. And although Harry can’t see her, he could only imagine what her face might look like, how her mouth might be open, her lips moving silently like she’s waiting, mouthing, _“yes, oh my god”_ to herself.

“Wanna hear you.” Harry mumbles against her skin and pulls away to lick the strip starting at her rim all the way up to the beginning of the crack. Veronica’s whole body tenses at the wet contact, the tongue at her hole for only a split second before it’s gone, her leg jerking. He swirls his tongue experimentally, Veronica nudging back onto Harry’s face like she’s impatient, wanting more by all the sounds she makes for him. The tip of his tongue breaches and Veronica lets out a sob that makes Harry think about using his other free hand to rub against his crotch, but he thinks against it, focusing on her. He flattens his tongue out, spreading her open a little more before licking another stripe back up her crack, revealing in the moans and tiny whimpers that fall from Veronica’s mouth, noises pretty sounding and making Harry’s dick swell in his jeans. If he wasn’t completely hard before, he definitely is now.

His jaw starts to ache around the same time Veronica’s knees wobble and he thinks she might be close to coming, so he stops, chin slick with spit. She pants against the table, Harry standing from in between her legs and he presses his clothed crotch against her arse, thumb pressing softly against her hole. She shudders, back visibly shaking as she breathes, but she slowly picks herself up from the table, straightening her back as best as she can. Harry helps her with a firm hand at her waist, half limp in his arms and when Harry finally sees her face, he’s fucking shocked. Behind her glasses, her eyes are watery, eyeliner a little runny at her bottom lashes where a few tears escaped. Her lips bitten and red, her chests raises and falls, but she doesn’t look away from him, never looks away.

Her hands on his chest fist at Harry’s tee shirt and he gets the memo when all she does is pull at the fabric, no words leaving her mouth, still recovering from Harry’s mouth on her. But his hands leave her momentarily to give her what she wants, tugging the shirt up and over his head and tosses it somewhere to the floor. She steps out of her panties and kicks them away, heels clicking against the floor.

“Couch,” she says breathlessly and Harry nods, bringing her in for another kiss before leading them back toward the couch. Pushing at his shoulders, Veronica makes Harry sit back against the couch again. Once Harry’s sat, she quickly heads to the bathroom and upon returning, Harry makes out the bottle of lube and a condom in her fist. And for a split second, Harry thinks he’s going to fuck her now. That he’ll sit back against the couch like previously, and Veronica will straddle his hips, spread herself out for him and he’ll get to fuck her.  

But she throws the bottle and condom onto the couch next to Harry, spreads his knees apart and kneels. Above the top of her glasses, she watches Harry and rubs her hands up his thighs, fingertips toying with the buckle of his belt again. Harry holds his breath, his belt jingling as she undoes it, grabbing a hold of it and completely tugging it out of it’s loops. Nimble fingers pop the button of his jeans off, the zipper sounding as it’s undone and Harry thinks she’s going to get right to it then before she stops.

Her eyes blink up at him, hands running back up his thighs with heavy hands, and Harry sifts a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face. She presses a kiss next to his belly button first, trailing kisses down his stomach and tonguing at each of the fern tattoos. She sucks hickeys that are hard to make out behind all the ink, mouth busy and her hands come up to the waistband of his pants.

Biting his lip with anticipation bubbling within his lower abdominal, Harry chews his bottom lip into his mouth. His fingers twitch once he brushes Veronica's hair to the side again, thumb brushing her cheek. With a firm palm, she rubs at his dick through his jeans with slow strokes. And when Harry cants his hips up, she smirks, removing her mouth from his skin with a devilish look in her eyes almost like a warning.

What a fucking tease.

His fist sits in her hair, his balls starting to tighten in a way that’s probably uncomfortable, but he let’s Veronica enjoy herself. Harry becomes all heavy breathing and soft moans with encouraging whispers, (“Yeah, like that,” “ _Fuck_ , that feels good,” “Just right _there_.”) but he involuntarily pulls at Veronica’s hair hard enough to jerk her forward when she squeezes, seam of his jeans rubbing against his cock.

And that’s what does it for her, her hands coming to fumble with Harry’s jeans and freeing him, Harry’s cock bobbing and curling against his stomach, tip leaking out next to his belly button. After an agonizingly long moment, Veronica fucking _stares_ as Harry’s cock twitches, head swollen and sensitive.

“So fucking big,” Zayn’s accent slurs and she drops her head down and licks at the veiny underside of Harry’s dick. Harry’s eyes practically rollback into his head, Veronica’s hand jerking off whatever her mouth can’t fit when she takes him, tongue curling. She focuses at the head, her lips stretching as she tongues at the slit, licking up the precome. Taking her time, Veronica jerks Harry off like she has all the time in the world, mouth working lazily, but it feels so fucking good, Harry loves the warmth of her mouth and the way her tongue works, wrist twisting at the base of his cock.

But Veronica doesn’t let him come. She pulls off with a sticky pop when Harry hisses and his cock twitches in her mouth. Her lips shine, her lip gloss smudged around her mouth, the rest ringed around the tip of Harry’s dick. He reaches a hand out to her and presses a thumb to her bottom lip, Veronica’s eyes fluttering and looking completely fucked out. And he hasn’t even fucked her yet.

“Want me to fuck you now?”

Veronica nods, licking up the dribble of precome that still lines her lip. With unsteady legs, she gets to her feet, ruffling her skirt high up on her waist. Her cock peaks out from underneath, furiously red and leaking onto the inside lining of the dress, and Harry thinks about jerking her off while she rides him.

“Open me up,” Zayn says, dropping Veronica’s accent for good and Harry nods, clumsily searching for the unopened bottle of lube. He tears the seal open with his teeth, Zayn sitting in his lap and moans through closed lips when his cock brushes against Harry’s, while Harry thinks he sees stars and fucking gasps, nearly dropping the lube.

He manages to steady his hands enough to squirt some onto his fingers, Zayn lifting the skirt up enough to guide Harry’s hands. And when he presses a cold finger to Zayn’s rim, he jerks up in Harry’s lap before sighing and leaning back to the touch. His pupils are so fucking blown out, Harry notices and Zayn can’t stop himself from keeping his eyes open while Harry’s finger circles his rim. It gets him going, Zayn rolling back and moving his hips along to the motion like he’s getting off from Harry just doing that. And then Harry seeps the tip of his forefinger in, and Zayn’s mouth falls open, brow furrowing at the stretch.

“You look so fucking good.” Harry tells him, and he does; Zayn’s hand comes and stays flat on Harry’s chest, fingertip rubbing at one of Harry’s nipples. Their hips start moving together in unison again, grinding against one another except this time their cocks have nothing to rub up against but each others. With his free hand, Harry fits a big hand around the both of them, fucking them both with his hand while he fits a whole finger inside Zayn and waits until he’s mumbling for another.

Harry obliges, gets a second finger working past his rim until Zayn’s fucking down on him, grinding his hips and stopping Harry from touching his dick. “Gotta -- slow down, don’t -- don’t wanna come yet.” So Harry lets his hands drop and instead Zayn fits his hand around Harry and jerks him off with lazy strokes, but the sharp twists of his wrist is what has Harry going. It’s when Harry fits a third finger in, Zayn hisses sharply, bringing his mouth down to Harry’s shoulder to bite harshly, getting used to the burn. The corner of his eyes water, but whenever Harry slows his pace, Zayn rolls his hips back down onto his fingers, so he doesn’t stop and Harry’s fingers curl.

Zayn fucking _moans_ , throws his head back to expose the line of his neck and Harry leans forward and bites. And Harry doesn’t stop fucking into him with his fingers, keeps them curled just enough. A blush rushes from Zayn’s cheeks down to his fucking chest, the kiss tattoo just barely visible and Zayn has to hold onto the back of the couch to keep himself steady, but the frequent stutter of his hips become erratic and Harry can’t keep up.

“M’ready, fuck me now, _come on, come on_.” His eyes are squeezed shut and Harry can’t look away. Zayn’s hand on Harry’s cock stops to find the condom packet, ripping the plastic away with the sharpness of his teeth. And he sees the impatient nature that Zayn unwraps it with, chest heaving and fingers frantic as he rolls the condom on Harry’s dick, lube sticky on his fingers. Harry takes the initiative, spreading more of the lube from the bottle onto his fingers and slicking up his cock, wrist jerking a couple of times while Zayn watches with blown out eyes. He wraps a hand around Harry when Harry drops his hand, and Zayn guides him until the head of his cock presses to the sticky rim of Zayn’s arse. And then Zayn begins to lower himself down.

It takes several minutes until Harry bottoms out. Zayn grinds his teeth, eye makeup smudged from tears and he stops a couple of times to catch his breath, his thighs shaking and Harry presses kisses to his neck, runs his hands over Zayn’s back in reassurance. And then Zayn will take another deep breath before trying again, arms still gripping the couch for something to hold onto, knuckles white and triceps quivering.

And then he finally sits, Harry’s whole fucking cock in and Zayn’s all white hot heat around him. It takes him everything not to rut his hips up and just fuck Zayn into oblivion until he’s moaning, and panting, and gasping. His arm tightens around Zayn’s waist and Harry lets him create the pace, agonizingly slow movements, circling, circling, circling. But the slow buildup of pressure in Harry’s stomach is all worth it.

He noses at the damp crook of Zayn’s neck, Veronica’s wig tickling his upper lip, but he doesn’t stop Zayn, lets him ride him. Hand searching underneath the dress, Harry struggles to find Zayn’s cock, but he does and wraps his hand around him and tugs. Zayn can’t stop rolling his hips, body arching with every rock, every rut until his body goes perfectly pilant.  

Shoulders stiffening, every muscle in Zayn’s body tenses and his mouth falls open, and fucking god, it’s the best image Harry has ever let his eyes fall upon. “Right there,” Zayn says between moans, bringing his bottom lip into his mouth and chews, Harry biting at his neck and leaving bruises that he knows will be there for a few weeks. “Come on, _fuck me._ ”

And he does, Harry’s hips snap up and Zayn moans, eyes going wide when he hits his prostate. He knows he finds it too, when Zayn can’t stop moaning, breathing too fast, too hard and he sinks his nails into the flesh of Harry’s shoulders blades. Zayn fucking moves that has Harry’s vision blacking out, clenching around his cock. " _Fuck,_ " Harry swears when Zayn rolls his hips just the right way, grinding downward and for a moment, Harry's sure his head fucking spins.

He grips Zayn's hips to keep him there, keep him from grinding down, keep him from moving. And Zayn comes to a stuttering stop, his cheek laying on Harry's damp shoulder while his cock stays full and leaking between them. And it's when Harry snaps his hips up hard enough for Zayn to gasp, and Harry just fucks into him deep.

"I'm gonna," Zayn pauses, mouth hanging open. His eyes keep opening and fluttering shut like he doesn't know which he really wants to do. One of his hands come up to grip at Harry's biceps, his fingernails digging into the skin. "Gonna come, keep going, gonna come."

Relentlessly, Harry fucks him. While Harry’s hips fuck up, Zayn’s hips fuck down and Harry doesn’t stop jerking Zayn off at the same rapid pace. And it’s when Harry’s thumb presses to his slit, Zayn fucking sobs, a strangled noise breaking at the back of his throat and he’s coming as he bounces, come spurting onto Harry’s hand and stomach hotly.

His whole body relaxes and he rests his forehead against Harry’s, their lips touching and Zayn mouthing at Harry’s lips, not exactly kissing him. And although Zayn sits there, back to lazy rocks in his lap, Harry hasn’t come yet. He fits an arm around Zayn’s waist, braces himself and _fucks_ , Harry unable to hold back the moans that come flooding out of his mouth. And Zayn whispers encouraging words, (“Come for me,” “Yeah, that’s right, come on,” “You look so fucking fit, Harry.”) that it doesn’t take long before Harry’s coming too, spilling out into the condom and slows his pace down until he eventually comes to a full stop.

Sweat sticking to their foreheads and body, Zayn takes the wig off, his hair falling into his eyes again and he pushes it back in one single movement. And while catching his breath, he takes his glasses off and puts them to the side, hand coming to push Harry’s own hair off of his forehead and touching his heated cheek. Harry tries to breathe, his head against the back of the couch and doesn’t move, Zayn having to guide him out of his fucked out hole. He stays in Harry’s lap though, leaving open mouthed kisses to Harry’s neck and chest until they can both breath again.

The first thing Harry says when his mouth isn’t sticky is, “You said you weren’t going to fuck me.”

Zayn’s mouth twitches and he breaks out into a soft laugh, his hand coming up to wipe at his eyes, smudging the makeup even further. “Yeah, I know.” And he leans down to kiss him.

*** * ***

It’s five a.m. when they head down to the pier again (freshly showered _and_ freshly fucked). The once dark sky gives away to soft blues, spots of pink light peeking behind the water as the sun comes up. And they watch the sunrise at the same spot, except one of Harry’s hands stay in the back pocket of Zayn’s jeans. Harry had called Paul and told him where he was, to pick him up at the pier (after he was yelled at through the phone, Zayn holding in his laughter and Harry smiling sheepishly, cheeks flushing in embarrassment).

And now it’s just a waiting game because they knew this would how it would end.

"Do you have to go back to work?” Harry says, and Zayn picks his head up from where it’s laying on Harry’s chest. “I mean, I could get you a job."

Zayn snorts out a laugh, but it isn’t bitter. He shakes his head, a sad sort of smile tugging at his mouth that makes Harry’s chest ache. "I don't want anything from you, Harry. A job is a job. Whether I write, I draw, I sing, I dance, I act, I fuck, it's all a performance. It never ends. I have to go back to work, or maybe I won't. You're not what I expected you to have been. I thought you would've been bratty, a right spoiled posh twat. But you're different."

Harry looks down at him and he can’t help the wide, dumb grin that starts at his lips. “Aww, you _like_ me.” And Zayn elbows him sharply in the ribs. “Ow--”

“Shut the fuck up, Styles.”

"But, hey,” Shrugging his shoulders, he doesn’t stop smiling. “Maybe I'll see you around one day. Wherever you'll be."

Shaking his head, Zayn licks his lips, his hands coming up to cup Harry’s cheeks. "You never know," he says, a smile starting to form on his mouth and he kisses Harry’s lips for good measure. "Maybe I'll actually come see your shows now."

"I don't think Veronica will be able to resist."

"I don't think so either."

An engine to a car breaks them out of the peace. The brakes squeak to a stop and Zayn’s hands fall back to his sides. He steps back from Harry a little, giving them space when Paul gets out of the drivers side and raises a brow at the two of them. “Where the hell were you?”

“Nice to see you too, buddy.” Harry winks cheekily just to see Zayn’s reaction, and when he looks down and smiles, Harry swells with pride.

“Get in the damn car.”

And they're forced to say goodbye. Zayn won’t look at him, not unless Harry’s hand reaches out and curls his fingers against Zayn’s palm. That does it for him, Zayn meeting Harry’s gaze, tentative and almost shy like before they sharpen and Harry knows he’s put his guard back up.

“Bye, Zayn.” he mutters just low enough for the two of them and Zayn watches as the wind ripples under his Iron Maiden tee shirt Harry claimed.

“Bye, popstar.” And the corner of his mouth only twitches once before deciding to turn his back on Harry which could be the last time he’ll ever see him. This could be their final goodbye, the only one they’ll ever have. And Harry must understand too, because he looks away, bottom lip quivering and then they separate.

At least for a brief moment.

“Hey,” He turns back to Zayn who looks over his shoulders, eyebrows expectant. “What’s your last name?”

Frowning, Zayn mumbles, “What?” He shakes his head, not understanding. “Uh, Malik. M-A-L-I-K.”

And he doesn’t hear words Harry mumbles to Paul until Harry’s handed a checkbook. Zayn’s expression shifts, his shoulders going taunt and Harry scribbles words and numbers. He rips out the check and hands it to Zayn with a soft look, holding it out for him to take. But Zayn only watches, stands rigid in his spot and frowns down at the piece of paper in Harry’s hands.

“Take it,” Harry says and Zayn keeps looking from the check to Harry’s eyes, and yet he still doesn’t move. It feels like several minutes pass before Zayn even makes his move, and when he does, he slowly steps forward, holds the check in his hands, eyes meeting Harry’s. Their gaze freezes and for a long moment, Zayn just searches Harry’s eyes, eyebrows and lips together. Harry lets go looking pleased with himself, stuffing his hands into the back pocket of his jeans. And then Zayn looks down at the check.

The check is written out for ten thousand pounds to Zayn Malik.

There’s a moment where Zayn’s mouth falls open, but no words come out. He stares down at the check for such a long time before meeting Harry’s eyes with an expression that reads he doesn’t understand. Harry can do nothing but smile back at Zayn. “It was nice meeting you.”

And Zayn blinks, eyebrows still together and lips a thin line. But his face relaxes, shoulders slacking and his eyes go gentle. “You too.” There’s a pause before he moves and tucks himself into Harry’s arms and he hugs him, Harry holding him against his chest and feels Zayn’s heartbeat.  

Paul waits until they part, Harry reluctantly letting go of Zayn’s hands. But when he does, Paul puts a hand on his shoulder until he ducks into the back seat of the car. Paul shutting the door behind him and the world that once stops starts again.

And when they drive away, Zayn’s still there in the middle of the road, check in his hand and the wind ruffling his hair into his eyes. A smile sits on his mouth, and then Zayn and the pier disappear behind them, becoming smaller until they fade away completely.

Closing his eyes, Harry leans back against the leather seating. He thinks of Long Island Iced Teas and flashing lights. He thinks of killer high heels and stale diner tea. He thinks of the sea and the fresh smell of rain, his black sweater he’ll probably never get back but that’s okay. He thinks of Zayn’s musky body wash and Veronica’s shimmery lip gloss. He thinks of Zayn moaning against his ear, body shaking, and he thinks about a tattoo of a bird taking flight.

The back of his head bumps against the headrest each time they drive over a pothole. And it’s different, sitting in the car and going back to his life. His life that’s chaotic and messy and will always be that way. But it’s different. And Harry can’t pinpoint what exactly changed, if it changed him or perhaps it was something else. He can’t explain it, but he sighs, chest weighing lighter, like a weight’s no longer pressing against his lungs. He can breathe.

_Inhale. Exhale._

He gets two swallows tattooed to his collarbones that following afternoon.

*** * ***

Harry’s ten thousand dollar check is never cashed in. He does get a pair of black laced panties in his P.O. box a month later with a note attached signed by V.

It’s the best fan mail he’s ever received.

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from the weeknd’s "earned it."
> 
> let me know what you thought! :)


End file.
